STUDIO RE/03

RE/03

RE/03

RE-MASTER

2020–2021

Edited by Thordis Arrhenius and Mikael Bergquist

KTH Royal Institute of Technology — School of Architecture Stockholm

COLOPHON

RE-Master Studio is an advanced architectural

course run at KTH Royal Institute of Technology

School of Architecture in Stockholm.

It is taught by Thordis Arrhenius

and Mikael Bergquist

Publication Design

Matthew Ashton

About the type

Univers is used throughout this publication. The

typeface was designed by the Swiss typographer

Adrian Frutiger and released by Deberny &

Peignot in 1957 — the same year as Helvetica.

© For all texts, drawings and images the

respective authors, unless otherwise stated.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced in any manner without

permission from the authors and the publisher.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to our many guests, hosts and critics who

joined us during the academic year 2020–2021.

Prof. Helena Matthsson (KTH), Josef Eder

(General Architects), Marcelo Torres, Nina

Lundvall (Caruso St. John), Dan Lindau,

Claes Sörstedt (KTH), Oliver Lütjens (Lütjens

Padmanabhan), Irina Davidovici (ETH Zürich),

Prof. Ulrika Karlsson (KTH), James Taylor

Foster (ArkDes), Anders Bodin, Rasmus Wærn

(Wingårdh Arkitekter), Ass.Prof. Léa–Catherine

Szacka (University of Manchester), Frida Grahn

(ISA,Accademia di Architettura Mendrisio), Beata

Labuhn (Oslo School of Architecture), Samuel

Lundberg (HHL Arkitekter), Björn Ehrlemark

(Arkitektens grannar) and Stanislaus von Moos

(University of Zurich)

ISBN 978-91-519-2350-5

CONTENTS

Re-Master

The Public Interior

Square

Market

Tower

Crescent

Boulevard

Station

Landscape

Archive

Afterwords

10

27

30

60

78

94

110

128

146

162

254

[6]

| BOU, VSM

CHANGE

A central effect of global capitalism

is the pressure of change. Urban

patterns and building programs are

increasingly becoming redundant,

demanding change to accommodate

new functions, identities and

economies. At an accelerating

speed, dominated by the logic of

obsolescence, the built becomes

outdated and turned into waste. This

in turn raises a new urgency for

contemporary architectural culture

to start addressing the pressure

of change in alternative modes.

PRESERVATION

With the fundamental shift in our

contemporary understanding of

spatial and material resources,

the architect is no longer primarily

occupied with making the new

from scratch, but with making

the new out of the past. In this

condition preservation has won a

new relevance for architecture that

goes far beyond saving its canon

of buildings. In the urgent context

of climate change preservation

is moving from the fringe of

architectural culture into its core.

[7]

PEOPLE RE-2020–21

Teachers

Thordis Arrhenius (TA)

Mikael Bergquist (MB)

Students

Jim Andersson (JA)

Sogol Baghban (SB)

Hedvig Carlin (HC)

Karin Edsälv (KE)

Andrea Ekman (AE)

Sara Grebner (SG)

Hjalti Gudlaugsson (HG)

Anna Hellström (AH)

Victoria Israelsson (VI)

Vilhelm Larsson Regnström (VLR)

Kim Lidman (KL)

Fredrika Linde (FL)

Ellen Lindskog (EL)

Blanca Obrador Urquijo (BOU)

Lovisa Orebrand (LO)

Declan Quirke (DQ)

Sara Salman (SS)

Vanesa Santillan Messina (VSM)

Alma Segerholm (AS)

Mikael Svensson (MS)

Ludwig Söderqvist (LS)

Johan Torarp (JT)

Lauri Vaher (LV)

Karin Weissenegger (KW)

Max Wolstencroft (MW)

Nora Yous (NY)

Anna Zander (AZ)

PROJECTS 2020–2021

Södra stationsområdet

Urban plan by Jan Inhe-Hagström

1981–91

Square

Medborgarhuset

K M Westerberg

1939

Kv Nederland 21

Riksbyggens arkitektavdelning,

Claes Mellin

1983?

Göta Arkhuset

Riksbyggens arkitektavdelning,

Claes Mellin

1983

Market

Söderhallarna

Bo Kjessel Arkitektkontor

1988-92

Tower

Söder torn

Henning Larsen*

1997

Crescent

Bofills Båge

Ricardo Bofill

1988-90

Fatabursparken

White arkitekter

1991

Station

Stockholm södra station

Axelsson & Borowski Arkitektkontor,

Coordinator Arkitektkontor

1988-90

Boulevard

Kv Brinckan 1, 2 och 3

EGÅ Arkitektkontor, Coordinator,

Riksbyggen konsult

Landscape

Kv Svärdet and Ånghästparken

Bengt Lindroos

1980-1990

ARCHIVES

ArkDes Archive

arkdes.se/en/library-and-collections/

Digital Museum

https://digitaltmuseum.se

Stockholm Källan

sok.stadsarkivet.stockholm.se

Stockholm Stad Archive

sok.stadsarkivet.stockholm.se

Stockholm City Planning Office

https://bygglov.stockholm/

hitta-ritningar

KTH Library

https://www.kth.se/biblioteket

[8]

| Re-Masters Studio in Stockholm. 2020 [9]

RE - 2020–2021

Studio Re- addresses the notion of change,

permeance and resilience through the means

of re-storation, re-use and re-pair. The overall

methodological and pedagogical strategy is to

explore the already present, the already built, the

already thought and imagined.

Re-storing Postmodernism

Architectural restoration is conditioned by an underlying uncertainty

about where its object is to be found; whether to be

found in the objects ‘ideal’ historical form, or in its actual physical

materiality. The search for the ‘real’ object in preservation

is surrounded by this ambiguity; to distinguish between true

and false, beginning and end, original and appliqué. When it

comes to postmodernism this ambiguity - that has shaped

preservation as a field of architectural enquiry since the 1800

gets its own special twist. A new orientation towards history

and preservation have often been associated with the postmodern

turn in architecture in the 1980’s. But how in terms of

this does the central guiding concepts of architectural preservation

such as authenticity and authorship; original and copy;

context and contrast, relate to a postmodern discourse imbued

with a playful thinking around those concepts themselves?

When postmodernism turns into heritage a series of intriguing

question opens up that reflects back to, and challenge the doxa

of preservation. How does a symbolic referential architecture,

already strongly dependent on surface effects, acknowledge

material authenticity and historical integrity? What is the actual

material authenticity of a postmodern building? Where is the

originality and authenticity of the building positioned? How do

you restore the copied, the simulated and the anachronistic?

[10]

Monument

Exploring Stockholm’s postmodern heritage, the Remaster

studio this year have speculated on how to restore, re-use

and repair postmodernism. By focusing on buildings and urban

assemblages that were materialized in the period of the

1980s and 1990’s we have kept it open and under discussion

which buildings and urban areas that classify as example of

Swedish postmodern architecture. However, due to political,

economical and material reasons many building from

the 1980 and 1990 are presently facing major changes and

alterations although it has passes less than 50 years since

they were erected. This pressure of change, often initiated

by new planning proposals or changes of ownership from

public to private, tends to start up new processes of historization

and resistance. In regards to sustainability it gets increasingly

hard to argue for extensive transformations or exclusive

modernisations of these often healthy but a bit worn

and outdated buildings. Indeed, when these relatively young

middle-aged buildings are radically being rebuilt, altered or

even demolished new appreciations and re-evaluation starts

to happen. For example, several of the building we have

studied in the studio have just only in the last years, become

re-classified into building of historic significance by official

heritage bodies. They are also despite or maybe perhaps of

there often rather shabby look and tired look gaining increasing

support and interest from a general public. They are returning

into fashion and starts to be looked upon even loved.

This processes of canonisation and historizations opens up to

the question at what point in history does postmodernism itself

become a thing of the past? What happens to postmodernism

when it finally becomes properly historical? What is a

postmodern historical monument?

[11]

Ornament

Beaux-Arts architects and urban designers who used the architectural

symbolism of the Classical tradition knew that its

meaning would be shared by their clients and a large public.

Moden architects deny the existence of symbolism in their

work and hope that”the people”will eventually understand

the new architecture. In the twenties, faced with Modem Art

and the International Style, some Beaux-Arts architects adapted

their decorative systems to Cubism. The resultant Art Deco

architecture was the Beaux-Arts reply to the Modem movement

Art Deco was the last gasp of the craft of architecture.

Image

What is often defined as the postmodern turn in architectural

coincide with the introduction at large scale of the computer

drawing and modelling. Architectural drawing in the 1980

turned from an occupation shadow and line to one of pixel

and colour. But also, crucially, and to an unforeseen extent

the emergence of the computer and the rendered image in

the architectural office was to fundamentally transform the

architectural profession from one of building-making to one

image making.

In the ‘pre- digital era’ the act of rendering referred to the

process of finishing and making ready a drawing by adding

a final layer of colour or shade. Now a days, when we talk

about a rendering we usually mean the use of a various digital

technologies to produce an architectural image. In both

cases however the act of rendering aims to a enhance the

depth and materiality of the architecture depicted – to make

it more ‘real’ and convincing. Crucial for the work in the stu-

[12]

dio is to reflect and test and most importantly advance the architectural

tool of drawing. To become aware of the function

of the image in architectural thinking. How the rendering/ the

image translate between drawing and building, between the

image and the architectural project? In those terms we have

also understood and discuss preservation as a form of image

making that curate and re-curate the physical material and

layout of a building with the tool of drawing and rendering.

Archive / Learning from the South Station

Digging through archives, photographing, filming, scanning,

modelling, imprinting and drawing we have started to collected

documentary and material evidence of buildings on

the brink of turning into history. This open-ended archive has

been the studios material and the source for a series of architectural

speculation. Searching and re-searching these buildings

and urban areas prehistories, as well as their making

and their afterlife, we have started to identified and build alternative

postmodern histories.

The focus for our investigation into postmodernism and preservation

have been an inner city public housing area Södra

station build in the period 1985-1995 …. The area constitute

one of the most comprehensive and fully developed postmodern

city area in Stockholm ….On a left railways

Influenced by Learning from Las Vegas we started to map the

area not from the car but from the a walk ….postmodern project

such as

[13]

[14] | MS

| MS, DQ

[15]

[16] | AH, KW

| SG

[17]

[18] | LS, HG, AS, FL

| AS, FL

[19]

[20] | AE, VI

| HC, BOU, AH

[21]

[22] | SS, HC

| VSM

[23]

[24] | SB

URBAN INTERIOR, LOVISA OREBRAND

| LO

[25]

THE IMAGE, LOVI

[26]

| EL, VLR

| LS, KL [27]

Site

The so called Södra stationsområdet [The South Station Area]

is situated on Södermalm in Stockholm. The area stretches

from Medborgarplatsen towards west until it reaches the

nature at Tanto and the water.

The area used to be a railway yard for the south bound train

traffic. When the central station was built the area diminished.

In the late 1980s Stockholm City bought the land. After a large

architectural competition 1981 - open for all, with 123 entries -

the idea to make the area into a residential new neighborhood

emerged.

Agents

From the mid 1980s to mid 90s a long row of architects

worked on the buildings in the area: Bengt Lindroos, Bo

Kjessel, White, Coordinator, Riksbyggen, among others and

eventually also the Spanish architect Ricardo Bofill and the

Dane Henning Larsen.

The area consists mainly of apartment buildings, one in

the form of a crescent by Ricardo Bofill and a tall high-rise

by Henning Larsen, the train station Stockholm södra, and a

market hall, Söder hallarna, facing Medborgarplatsen.

The architect in charge for the planning at the City office

was Jan Inghe-Hagström. He was influenced by the

postmodernism being built in Berlin and the city plans of

the Krier brothers and others. The term postmodernism was

never very popular in Sweden among architects. But at Södra

stationsområdet postmodern architecture was designed and

[28]

built. The most obvious project is perhaps the market hall

Söderhallarna at Medborgarplasten, designed by Bo Kjessel.

The Spanish architect Ricardo Bofill designed an apartment

building as a crescent in a neo classical style resembling his

earlier projects in Paris. The highest building in the area being

Söders torn by Henning Larsen. A building that was one

of the last to be built in the area in the early 1990s in a neo

classical style.

The area borders on the old Södermalm city fabric but the

area feels kind of cut off. One of the reasons for this is the

traffic separation favored in many suburban areas in the 1960s

and 70s but also used here in the central parts of Stockholm.

This gives the area a lot of stairs that bridge the hight

differences. The area was planned as a public and accessible

area with open courtyards and intimate ”urban interiors”.

Over time this has changed. Most of the apartments are today

privately owned and the publicness has decrease with locked

gates and fences around many houses and courts.

How do you work with an area like Södra stations området

today? What can you learn from it and what are the

difficulties?

From the very beginning some of the architecture in the area

was criticized for being poorly executed and built. Today some

30 years later the need for renovation is urgent in many parts.

Postmodernism as a style also brings on many questions of

adaption or contrast.

We have tried to look at the area with no strong

preconception. With curiosity and a critical eye t the same

time.

[29]

[30]

| Stockholms Stadsarkiv

built. The most obvious project is perhaps the market hall

Söderhallarna at Medborgarplasten, designed by Bo Kjessel.

The Spanish architect Ricardo Bofill designed an apartment

building as a crescent in a neo classical style resembling his

earlier projects in Paris. The highest building in the area being

Söders torn by Henning Larsen. A building that was one

of the last to be built in the area in the early 1990s in a neo

classical style.

The area borders on the old Södermalm city fabric but the

area feels kind of cut off. One of the reasons for this is the

traffic separation favored in many suburban areas in the 1960s

and 70s but also used here in the central parts of Stockholm.

This gives the area a lot of stairs that bridge the hight

differences. The area was planned as a public and accessible

area with open courtyards and intimate ”urban interiors”.

Over time this has changed. Most of the apartments are today

privately owned and the publicness has decrease with locked

gates and fences around many houses and courts.

How do you work with an area like Södra stations området

today? What can you learn from it and what are the

difficulties?

From the very beginning some of the architecture in the area

was criticized for being poorly executed and built. Today some

30 years later the need for renovation is urgent in many parts.

Postmodernism as a style also brings on many questions of

adaption or contrast.

We have tried to look at the area with no strong

preconception. With curiosity and a critical eye t the same

time.

[31]

LANDSCAPE

HOUSE

BOULE

[32]

TOWER

SQUARE

MARKET

STATION

CRESCENT

VARD

[33]

SQUARE

The studio has explored the notion of public space and its return

in the architectural discourse in the beginning of postmodernism.

The aim to reconstruct the city as collective public

experience mark the overall design and ambition of the

Södra Station area that are designed a series of urban public

spaces were the courtyards for the houses are open as public

spaces to

has been played out Urban life acting out

Urban interior / tension between exterior and interior

If the home and the family was strong figure of thought in

the construction of Swedish architectural modernism the city

and its publicness was central to a budding postmodern discourse

in the late 1960th …...

Literary Medborgarplatsen means ‘Citizen Place’ named after

Medborgarhuset that was erected in 1939 at Södermalm as

a new type of civic center providing communal spaces, services

and leisure facilities to the public of Stockholm. Open

to all Medborgarhuset represented in the 1930 a new ambition

of public life in the city. The building has recently open

after an extensive restoration and during the coming decade

several of the other building surrounding the square and the

square itself, will be altered, reconfigured and restored. Public

life, surveying control ornament and subversion

on the façades as a public architectural element. how facades

around Medborgarpatsen negotiated their publicness

in ornament and tectonics, in materiality and color, in composition

and signage, in program and organization.

[36]

| JA, HC, AZ

| BOU, VSM [37]

[38]

| JA, HC, AZ [39]

[40]

| SG

| SG [41]

[42]

| HG

| JA [43]

[44]

| JA, HC, AZ

| HC, AZ [45]

[46]

| BOU

| BOU [47]

[48]

| DQ

| DQ [49]

[50]

| VSM

| BOU [51]

[52]

| JA

| JA [53]

[54]

| FL, SG

| FL, SG [55]

[56]

| LS

| HG [57]

[58]

| KL

| MS [59]

DIALOGUE

With three distinctly different projects

designed for the same site,

Declan, Mikael and Kim spoke together

to extrapolate the reasonings

behind our different methods.

How did you approach this context?

MS // My starting point was to use

the arcade from Bengt Lindroos’

competition proposal for Söder torn.

It was more of a reference for an

appearance, how I wanted my project

to look, than a thought-through

site approach. I liked the strong and

straightforward form of the arcade.

I would say it shaped how I worked

with the program and urban questions.

The coherence of it allowed

me to close and open certain parts of

the project in plan, while keeping a

unity in elevation. I also like how this

unified elevation clashes with the organic

forms of the trees and the varying

topography of the site.

KL // In my opinion, this variegated

corner of Medborgarplatsen

makes the square feel incomplete.

The ground material between

Lillienhoffska, Medborgarhuset and

the bar pavilions being the same,

you get the feeling that these buildings

form a single unit, one in which

the pavilions do not fit. To me, this

is a place that can handle, almost

requires, a larger building with clarity

and prominence, one that is not

overshadowed by its neighbors.

I wanted to do a project that heals

the place, with a gesture towards

the Square and Medborgarhuset

and a gesture towards Lillienhoffska.

These facades are essential in the

project, while the facades towards

Noes Arksgränd and Repslagargatan

are secondary. In order not to be

too brutal towards the secondary

facades however, I have cut off the

northwest corner of the building and

placed a staircase here to connect

Repslagargatan with the square,

similar to how it is today.

DQ // I think I started with a similar

idea to you, Kim, wanting to ‘heal’

this place. It felt so disorganised and

dirty. But I did sense that there was

a popular culture alive here that was

valuable, soI thought it would be interesting

to try make the site work

better in its character as it exists. I

started playing with the levels and

facades to make the surrounding

spaces stronger in their own character;

the square more square-like, the

garden more garden-like, etc. The

pavilion itself became quite small,

and seeing the strength of your facades

now, maybe too small!

Our projects each occupy different

parts of the site, but we all quite

strictly follow the north/south extent

of Lilienhofska, not intervening

on the square nor arksgränd. Why do

you think that is?

DQ // Lilienhoffska has become a

kind of “urban artefact” that the

rest of the city is evolving about;

the street and square were both

built much later but hold to its edges.

Because I had started by trying

to strengthen the character of the

place, it seemed right to further accentuate

the present lines; those

from the Lilienhofska, the square,

the garden and the building-line

from Repslagargatan. I did try options

where I broke these lines but it

always felt somehow wrong.

KL // It is not something I gave a lot

of consideration while working with

the project, it came rather intuitively,

but it became very apparent when

seeing my project next to yours. It

makes me think about the tools and

the techniques that you (we) work

with. I believe both of you had the

same Cad-drawing as I had, made

by others in the class as a starting

point. In this drawing the pattern of

the ground is very prominent, more

so than in reality. Interrupting this

very defined square feels like quite a

stretch when working with this plan.

I wonder if our projects would have

looked different if the ground material

of the square had been different,

or if the distinct square-shape had

been broken up somewhere else

around it.

MS // I agree with you both, it was

intuitive not to expand the site onto

the square. Lindroos placed his arcade

on the square, so moving it

back was one of the first things I did

differently from his proposal (if we at

all can compare the proposals at this

point). I think following the lines of

Lilienhofska makes for a much more

clean framing of Medborgarplatsen.

The borders are very strong and clear

around the square, except for where

[60]

our site is. Here the lines are blurred.

The transition to Repslagargatan

feels very awkward; you must either

zig zag between Göta Ark and the

Kvarnen pavilion or find your way to

the partly blocked stairs. I think we

all made this more accessible.

There is a strong history around

the square; from Lillienhoffska to

Medborgarhuset to Söderhallarna,

each with distinctive architectural

styles relating to the time they were

designed. How did you relate to

them, to the task of designing something

of today?

of the buildings are composed with

grandeur; Medborgarhuset with its

large staircases and monumental division,

Söderhallarna with its round

windows spanning two floors and

Lilienhofska being a 17th century

palace.

I wanted to pick up this monumentality

and reinforce the sense of permanence

of the site, as opposed to how

the northern corner is composed

today.

DQ // The diversity of styles and

materials around the square gives

a great freedom when designing

something new, anything’s possible!

Myself, I looked at the smaller pavilions,

the weaker buildings, for I feel

that they allow a certain ad-hoc culture.

These were primarily made in

green steel and glass with tiles, so I

used these as my materials.

MS // I think “anything is possible”

is quite spot on here. Sure, relating

to architectural styles is more

than just sampling, I would say it

is more about trying to make you

think of a building in a certain way,

may it be composition, structural

rhythm, or materiality. But what

makes Medborgarplatsen special is

the sense of allowance at the site.

There is no ruling stylistic expression.

A common thread is that many

[61]

[62]

| MS

| KL, DQ [63]

MARKET

consumption and gluttony an urban life

The market hall of was classified by the cty

museum in xx as

[66]

| XX ARCHIVE

| KL [67]

21.02.25 RE- Store

Kim Lidman

[68]

| XX ARCHIVE

| MS [69]

[70]

| LV

| LV [71]

[72]

| LV

| LV [73]

[74]

| MS

| MS [75]

[76]

| XX ARCHIVE, DQ

| LV [77]

Model of the corner pilaster

Scale 1:20

OPEN

Medborgarplatsen

kv. Fatburen 1 - 5

RE -

SÖDERHALLARNA

söderhallarna

BIO APOTEK VINBUTIK RESTAURANGER SALUHALL BUTIKER BANK

A

L

L

A

R

N

A

SÖDERHALLARNA

Line drawing 1:100

SALUHALL

Never Land

VECKANS ÖL

39:-

PUBLIC FACADE

ANNA ZANDER

[78]

| AZ

| AZ [79]

Model of entrance to the market hall from Tjärhovsgränd 1:20

[80]

| MS, XX ARCHIVE

Working model 1:100

| MS [81]

TOWER

The desire to build tall open architectural

competion Höga hus landmark formalism

monuments marks

Fatburstrappan

20-6

[84]

| VI

| VI [85]

[86]

| ARCHIVE OF HENNING LARSEN,

| SG [87]

[88]

| VI

| ARCHIVE OF HENNING LARSEN, [89]

[90]

| LO

| LO [91]

[92]

| LO, ARCHIVE OF CARL-AXEL ACKING

| LO [93]

[94]

| LO

| LO [95]

[96]

| MO

Göta Arkhuset in the archive

Competition proposal for Södertorn

Re master studio VT 2021

| ARCHIVE OF BENGT LINDROOS [97]

CRESCENT

In Sweden every public housing development in

one way or another related to the so called Million

Program, the state initiated housing scheme that

build over one million new house units during a

10 years span ( 1964- 1974 ) by rationalizing and

industralizing the building sector

The public housing on södra station was built with

the same panel system as the large scale housings

system of the million program but to

If the simplified view is that postmodern

architecture strove to get away from the modernist

dreary utopias and one-sided universalism,

The public facade Allmännyttan public housing

on the façades as a public architectural element.

how facades around Medborgarpatsen negotiated

their publicness in ornament and tectonics, in

materiality and color, in composition and signage,

in program and organization.

[100]

Högbergsgatan

Fatburssjön

| HC [101]

High Expectations, Theatrical Romantic Proposal

Architect’s presentation model

[102]

| ARCHIVE OF RICARDO BOFILL

| KE [103]

[104]

| DQ [105]

[106]

| XX ARCHIVE

The Pre-fabricated Ruin

Pre-construction? Post-construction? A post-modern monument, disassembled

| MW [107]

[108]

| MW

| AS [109]

[110]

A Pre-fabricated Monument, Re-evaluated

Ambiguous

| MW

| SG [111]

Publi

[112]

| LS

model photo

| KW [113]

BOULEVARD

When the Stockholm Public Library opened in 1928

it only consisted of the main building, lacking its

fourth wing towards the west and its base towards

Sveavägen due to economic restraints. The “Bazaar

building” was added several years later as a plinth

to the main building—a low modernist structure

wrapping around the corner of Sveavägen and

Odengatan. The large slender glazing and load

bearing pillars in concrete receed into the building,

producing a “free-facade” in Le Corbusier’s

Odenplan, how do you enter into the building?

[116] | SS

STUDENT / SARAH SALMAN // TUTORS / THORDIS ARRHENIUS / MIKAEL BERGQUIST

SCHEMATIC SKETCH

SÖDERMALMSALLÉN. COLLAGE

STUDIO RE // CRIT // 2020.12.10

| SS

[117]

[118]

| VSM

[119]

MAPPING

SÖDERMALMSALLÉN.

[120]

| SS

FACADE AND PLAN

| SS

SÖDERMALMSALLÉN.

COLLAGE DRAWING

[121]

[122]

| FL

[123]

[124] | AZ

| AZ

[125]

[126]

| VSM

[127]

[128] | VLR

| VLR

[129]

[130]

| DQ

[131]

STATION











manner. The plinth originaly housed a restaurant

and shops which were intended to be rented for a

period of 25 years before returning to the library.

The articulated entrance sequence from Sveavägen

leads up the long external staircase—cutting the

plinth in two—to the upper terraces, towards a

slender glass wall supporting the main doors. One

enters a light airy room which leads directly into a

low narrow space with a stair ascending upwards.

Slowly, step by step, one emerges into the lofty

book-filled room of the rotunda. The entrance

sequence is a very special, almost theatrical, way

of entering the building. Odenplan, how do you

enter into the building?

[134] | PHOTOGRAPH OF MARIA AND MISCHA BOROWSKI, SKETCH BY COORDINATOR ARKITEKTER

| SG

Södra station from Bangårdsgången, model

[135]

[136]

| BOU

[137]

[138] | BOU

| BOU

[139]

[140] | SB

| SB

[141]

[142] | SB

| SB

[143]

[144] | NY

Seating area towards Södra Station.

INTERIOR VIEW

Brinckan Café

| AE

[145]

[146] | LO

| LO

[147]

[148] | HC

| FORMER RAIL YARDS OF SÖDRA STATION, 1970. XX ARCHIVE

[149]

LANDSCAPE











manner. The plinth originaly housed a restaurant

and shops which were intended to be rented for a

period of 25 years before returning to the library.

The articulated entrance sequence from Sveavägen

leads up the long external staircase—cutting the

plinth in two—to the upper terraces, towards a

slender glass wall supporting the main doors. One

enters a light airy room which leads directly into a

low narrow space with a stair ascending upwards.

Slowly, step by step, one emerges into the lofty

book-filled room of the rotunda. The entrance

sequence is a very special, almost theatrical, way

of entering the building. Odenplan, how do you

enter into the building?

[152] | KL

Sketch Sketch

References

Sketch

Sketch

References

| KL

[153]

[154] | XX

Be

| XX

[155]

[156] | KL

| KL

[157]

Maria Bangata

Rosenlundsgatan

Ånghästparken

Ringvägen

Sköldgatan

Kv. Svärdet

Ånghästparken 1:500 (A2)

[158]

| KE

Leon Krier, Artist studio on Central Park

Site photo

L

| LEON KRIER

[159]

[160] | KE

| EL

[161]

Proposal - Site A

Proposal - Site A

[162]

| KL

Sven Markelius och Olof Lundgren, Års

| KL

[163]

[164] | EL

Sven Markelius och Olof Lundgren, Årstabron (photo from 1934)

| ÅRSTA BRIDGE, 1930. XX ARCHIVE

[165]

ARCHIVE

[168]

| ARCHIVE

| SQUARE [169]

[2]

[170] | ARCHIVE

| SQUARE

[171]

[23]

[172] | ARCHIVE

I bildens nedre del syns Söderledens norra tunnelmynning vid Högbergsgatan.

Parallellt med Götgatan tv passerar leden under bebyggelsen på Södermalm,

över Johanneshovsbron till Nynäsvägen.

The north portal of Söderleden tunnel at Högbergsgatan is visible in the lower part of

the photograph. Parallell with Götgatan (left) the road passes below the buildings on

Södermalm before crossing Johanneshov bridge to Nynäsvägen.

| SQUARE

[24] [173]

[174] | ARCHIVE [25]

A

D

B

E

C

F

A

D

B E F

C

| SQUARE

[175] [26]

“The central space ends with a lantern with a dense roof

with vertical glass surfaces. The intention with this is that

the space should have the character of an interior space

and not a glazed courtyard. By doing this we want to

achieve a more beautifully illuminated space and a softer

and more friendly atmosphere. Visually the central spiral

staircase should be experienced as a “stem” holding a

large “leaf” sheltering the yard.”

-Systemhandling 1988

[43]

[176] | ARCHIVE

of

at

ce

to

er

al

a

“The central space of

the market hall ends in

a corresponding way as

the office building, but in

another shape. We strive

for a beautifully illuminated

space! Here too heavy

stems grow to the sky and

unite in a crown, which by

its design brings down light

to the hall. The interplay

between the stem and the

crown strengthens the

market hall as a central

function in the building and

should be perceptible from

the outside as well as the

inside.”

-Systemhandling 1988

A Model photo, Bo Kjessel 1988

B Model photo, Bo Kjessel 1988

43] [44]

| MARKET

[177]

Medborgarplatsen, 1940s

MEDBORGARPLATSEN 1900 - PRESENT

STUDIO RE

P1

NORA YOUS

[178] | ARCHIVE

| MARKET

DRAWINGS AND WORKING MODELS, MARKET PLACE AND OFFICES

[179]

DRAWINGS, SECTIONS

STUDIO RE

P1

NORA YOUS

[180] | ARCHIVE

UPPSTAIRS

DOWNSTAIRS

UPPSTAIRS

| MARKET

INTERIORS, DRAWINGS AND FOOD STALLS

[181]

INTERIOR ORNAMENTS AND COLOURS

STUDIO RE

P1

NORA YOUS

[182] | ARCHIVE

EXTERIOR AND INTERIOR FOOD STALLS, MEDBORGARPLATSEN, SALUHALLEN, EXTERIOR COLOURS

| MARKET

STUDIO RE

P1

NORA YOUS

[183]

[184] | ARCHIVE

| MARKET

[185]

„Tornprojekt vid vid Medborgarplatsen“

de

ts that are

here:

development of of the the design of of the the tower over over tht

arround 70 proposals

stadsbyggnadskontoret + ark. Alexis

Pontvik publish a study of the tower

design. The study was mainly intended

to analyze different cityscape consequences

of the fundamentally different

tower designs.

„Tornprojekt vid Medborgarplatsen“

-e-

w

as as

for r

siize

-

e

Söder torn torn originalvorslag Henning Larsen

1985

Stockholms city city planning

office (Stockholms stadsbyggnadskontor)

announces

ideas competition for for

ces

a a high-rise building in in the the

south of of Stockholm.

1986

40 40 floors

campanile. Office, shops, spinning restaurant

res-

1988

32 32 floors

office, shops, spinning restaurant, maybe

children and and youth

office, sho

Söder torn originalvorslag Henning Larsen

1986

1961

Hening Larsen won competition

for Stockholms new

university in Frescati, he was

designated as too young for

such a big project, the assignment

went to second prize

winner David Helldèn

1985

Stockholms city planning

office (Stockholms stadsbyggnadskontor)

announces

ideas competition for

a high-rise building in the

south of Stockholm.

40 floors

campanile. Office, shops, spinning restaurant

office, sho

[186]

| ARCHIVE

1988

1989

1990

23 floors

15 floors

9 floors

t, maybe

office, shops, spinning restaurant, children

and youth

proposal by city planning office

children and youth center, all activity

house, maybe spinning restaurant

lots of office, stores, finance and public

service in fairly small area

1991

ance and public

mall area

„Back to the city“

Fredric Bedoire

23 floors, housing

1993

„reasonably high house“, which means approximately height Skatteskrapan

| TOWER

[187]

„Haglunds stick“ - An architects dream with nine lives. DagensNyheter 931203

Henning Larsen won the competition for the Malmö city library (various changes for financial reasons)

[188] | ARCHIVE

„Haglunds stick“ a pole of shame. SvenskaDagbladet 950725

for financial reasons)

1995

23 floors, final design

housing

| TOWER

[189]

[190] | ARCHIVE

[71]

Detailed plan Fatburshöjden, 1995, Jan Inghe archive

| TOWER

[72]

[191]

(may: in

Arkitekt hoppar av Söder torn. DagensNyheter 961002

Haglund wanted to open the house to the public. SvenskaDagbladet 961026

[192] | ARCHIVE

Over time,

houses

Because w

Henning‘s

line. In add

was also ch

Henning t

from the p

Arc

When you

like when

the

The questi

if they are

each archit

with, not g

mes to bra

ment“. Wh

implement

Visionless

for the ver

Arkitekt hoppar av Söder torn. Dagens

Danish architect does not give up. ??? 960511

1996

In one of S

Torn, or H

built in th

Haglund wanted to open the architect house to Ht

So another

stand out,

a little neit

eyes was th

can the Da

Beauty contest or city life? Arkitektur 5-98

| TOWER

1998

[193]

Proposal Långhög

Reward 50 000 kr

Proposal Igor

Reward 50 000 kr

First competition

Selected proposals

From Brf Söder torn’s webpage

Proposal Lyftet

Reward 75 000 kr

Proposal Stolpe in

Reward 75 000 kr

First competition

Selected proposals


Proposal Solitär

Purchase 25 000 kr

Proposal Medborgarporten

Purchase 25 000 kr

Proposal Body and Soul

Honorable mention

[194]

First competition

Selected proposals

| ARCHIVE


By Ahlgren/Edblom/AOS

By Brygghuset Arkitekter

By Bengt Lindroos

By GWSK Arkitektkontor

By Pontvik/Tengbom

By Henning Larsen

Second competition

All proposals

From Arkitektur 5-1988

Original proposal

By Henning Larsen

| TOWER

[195]

Plan 3 Plan 4 Plan 5 Plan 6


Drawings

Apartment floor plans

Scale 1:300



Drawings

Apartment floor plans

Scale 1:300


[196] | ARCHIVE

Söder torn halfway through. Söder torn halfway through. Söder torn almost done.

Construction photos


Söder torn foundation.

Söder torn 7 floors high.

Construction photos


| TOWER

[197]

doors

doors

[198] | ARCHIVE

les

maisons

temple

les

maisons

temple

| CRESCENT

[199]

[200] | ARCHIVE

concept

THE PORTICO

KUBEN ÖST OCH VÄST

ALMA SEGERHOLM

DAYTIME

THE PORTICO; THE ENTRANCES


ALMA SEGERHOLM

NIGHTTIME

| CRESCENT

[201]

BOFILLS BÅGE

A FAIRY TALE FOR THE PEOPLE

Karin Edsälv

Hjalti Guðlaugsson

Fredrika Linde

Alma Segerholm

Max Wolstencroft

[202] | ARCHIVE

[4]

| CRESCENT

[203]

[204] | ARCHIVE

[8]

| CRESCENT

[205]

[206] | ARCHIVE

| CRESCENT

[207]

[208] | ARCHIVE

| CRESCENT

[209]

[210] | ARCHIVE

THE ORNAMENTATION

FACADE


ALMA SEGERHOLM

| CRESCENT

[211]

EQUAL DISTRIBUTION

MIXED MATERIALS TO CREATE VARIATION

ROOF OVER THE LAST BALCONY

DOMINANT BALCONIES

NORTH ELEVATION BRINCKAN 2, BERGSGRUVAN 1:300 (A3)

ASYMMETRIC PLACING

THE BALCONY

__________________

VILHELM REGNSTRÖM

WORKSHOP 1 STUDIO RE

FALL 2020

[212] | ARCHIVE

NORTH ELEVATION 1:500 (A3)

SOUTH ELEVATION 1:500 (A3)

PLACING OF BALCONIES

__________________

| BOULEVARD

BOFILLS BÅGE

[213]

NORTH ELEVATION 1:500 (A3)

[214] SOUTH ELEVATION 1:500 (A3)

| ARCHIVE

| BOULEVARD

[215]

PROJECT: SÖDRA STATIONSOMRÅDET 20.09.17

COMPETITION BRIEF SÖD

[216] | ARCHIVE

STUDENT: SARAH SALMAN

RA STATIONSOMRÅDET

| BOULEVARD

SCANNED DOCUMENTS

[217]


ARCHIVE MATERIAL SÖDRA STATIONS

[218] | ARCHIVE

SCANNE



ERIAL SÖDRA STATIONSOMRÅDET

SCANNED DOCUMENTS

A STATIONSOMRÅDET

| BOULEVARD

SCANNED DOCUMENTS

[219]


ARCHIVE MATERIAL

[220] | ARCHIVE


SÖDRA STATIONSOMRÅDET

SCANNED DOCUMENTS

| BOULEVARD

[221]


COMPETITION PROPOSAL HSB SÖDR

[222] | ARCHIVE


A STATIONSOMRÅDET

| BOULEVARD

SCANNED DOCUMENTS

[223]


[224] | ARCHIVE

| BOULEVARD

[225]

1.

2.

3.

1. 2. 3.

15. 16.

15.

16.

17.



[226]

| ARCHIVE

4.

5.

6.

7.

4. 5. 6. 7.

17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

18.

19.

20.

21.

ENTRANCES SÖDERMALMSALLÉN

PHOTOS / SITEPLAN

| BOULEVARD

[227]

8. 9. 10.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

26.

27.

28. 29. 30.

31.

32.

33.

22. 23. 24.



[228] | ARCHIVE

11. 12. 13. 14.

13. 14.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

25. 26. 27. 28.

ENTRANCES SÖDERMALMSALLÉN

PHOTOS / SITEPLAN

| BOULEVARD

[229]

[230] | ARCHIVE

| STATION

[231]

[232] | ARCHIVE

| STATION

[233]

1855

1996

[234] | ARCHIVE

1960

2019

| STATION

[235]

[236] | ARCHIVE

The railway came to Stockholm in 1860. At that time,

Stockholm's southern station, the city's first railway

station, was built. The station was located at

Medborgarplatsen, approximately where Söderhallarna

is today.

In accordance with the 1923 railway station agreement,

it was decided that the passenger station would be

moved west to the main line. The old station building

was demolished and a new one was placed in the north

part of the area. The building was completed in 1926

and designed by Folke Zetterwall.

Södra station was used for both freight trains and

passenger traffic. The freight station closed down in the

1980s. Today, the railway tracks run in tunnels under

Södermalm. Now only the commuter trains stop at

Södra station.

The station was completed in 1989. Statens Järnvägar

(SJ) was the client and Coordinator Architects was

responsible for the design of the station itself. It was the

first time in Sweden that a regular railway was built over

with residential buildings, they were designed by EGÅ

Arkitektkontor, Coordinator arkitekter and Riksbyggen

konsult. The building properties were Brinckan (1,2,3)

and Stadens Dike (6,7).

| STATION

[237]

Source: Arkitektur 7 - 1987

Source: Södra stationsområdet Program 1984

[238] | ARCHIVE


Context: Södra Station in

relation to City plan

| STATION

[239]

[240]


| ARCHIVE

| STATION

Södra stationsområdet

Program 1984

[241]

[242] | ARCHIVE

Drawings of Södra station, train station

| STATION

[243]

” I worked with the room created

by the pillars placed throughout

the station and the colouring of

the surfaces that were covered

with tiles. I constructed a waving

pattern which never repeats

itself to make it exciting to move

through the approximately 5000

square meters of the station.

The pattern is made out of two

shapes based upon the angles of

The Golden Section. The material

is terrazzo, and the colours

(pink, green, and grey) are light

to make the floor reflect light

from above. When light reflects

off of the floor these colours

blend to create a warm

yellowish light. ”

- Gösta Wessel (description

from his website)

Source pictures: https://www.wessel.se/

portfolio_page/sodra-station-railway-station/

[244] | ARCHIVE

Södra station 1988 - train station floor

| STATION

[245]

Source: Arkitektur 6 - 1987

[246] | ARCHIVE

| STATION

Södra station - tracks and train station

[247]

KV SVÄRDET, BENGT LINDROOS

1980-88

[248] | ARCHIVE

| LANDSCAPE

[249]

[250] | ARCHIVE

STOCKHOLM SOUTH RAILWAY STATION

STRANDLINJEN CA 1500 F KR

STRANDLINJEN CA 1200 E KR

Fatburen was a lake located on Södermalm in Stockholm.

At the end of the 1850s the lake was filled, a new railway was to be built.

| LANDSCAPE

RAILWAY BUILT IN 1861

[251]

[252] | ARCHIVE

| LANDSCAPE

[253]

[254] | ARCHIVE

STUDIO RE

| LANDSCAPE

FREDRIKA LINDE

[255]

ALLMÄN IDÉTÄVLING SÖDRA STATIONSOMRÅDET

BENGT LINDROOS

[256]

1981

| ARCHIVE

| LANDSCAPE

[257]

AFTERWORDS

[258]

We kindly thank Frida Grahn, Stanislaus von Moos, Irina Davidovici

and Ramus Wærn for their permission to reprint these texts.

Frida Grahn

Aspects of pop and the Postmodern: The Theory of Denise Scott Brown

This text will be a part of Frida Grahn’s forthcoming doctoral thesis.

Stanislaus von Moos

A View from the Gondola: Notes on History,

Spectacle and Modern Architecture

First published in: Stanislaus von Moos and Martino

Stierli, Eds., Eyes That Saw: Architecture after Las

Vegas, (Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2020)

Irina Davidovici

Constructing the Site: Ticino and critical regionalism, 1978–1987

First published in: OASE Journal #103 (2019) with

the theme: Critical Regionalism Revisited.

Ramus Wærn

Södra Station

First published in: Dan Hallemar, Ed., Tio byggnader som

definierade 80-talet, (Stockholm: Arkitektur förlag, 2020)

[259]

ASPECTS OF POP AND THE

POSTMODERN: THE THEORY OF

DENISE SCOTT BROWN

Frida Grahn

Denise Scott Brown (b. 1931) and

Robert Venturi (1925–2018) are known

as two originators of Postmodernism

in architecture. Venturi’s Complexity

and Contradiction in Architecture

(1966) would inspire a new interest

in the architectural past and a wave

of historical quotation. However,

their influence went beyond historicism:

a second publication, Learning

from Las Vegas (1972), sought to

learn from the present – from the

sprawling cities of the American

Southwest. The genesis of the book

is particularly intertwined with the

biography of Scott Brown. Central

is her research on the everyday urban

landscape and her ties to Anglo-

Saxon Pop Art, forming a crucial link

between Pop and Postmodernism.

Born in Zambia in 1931, Scott Brown

(née Lakofski), began her education

in Johannesburg – a South African

metropolis with a rich folk-popular

culture. She was encouraged

by an art teacher to learn from her

immediate surroundings in order to

be truly creative. Observation and

photographic documentation would

become some of Scott Brown’s

most important investigative

tools – in Johannesburg, London,

Philadelphia, Los Angeles and Las

Vegas.

Scott Brown continued her studies

at the Architectural Association

in London 1952–54 where she met

Alison and Peter Smithson. The

Smithsons were members of the

artist collective the Independent

Group and took part in the exhibition

‘This Is Tomorrow’ (1956) – popularly

known as the birth of Pop Art.

Pop Art developed in the wake of the

postwar Americanization of the West

and the emergence of mass media

and consumerism. New cultural expressions,

seen in advertisement in

glossy magazines, the commercial

vernacular, and ordinary street life,

were used as raw material in collages.

The scrap book aesthetics were

accompanied by an appreciation

for the existing environment, seen

in the growing opposition to radical

renewal projects of eastern London.

Scott Brown would follow the discussions

closely and comment on

them in later writings. The dual interest

of Pop and preservation would

follow her throughout her career.

In 1958 Scott Brown moved to

Philadelphia to study city planning

and urban sociology at the

University of Pennsylvania. The

American situation was partly similar

to the British – there were downtown,

low-income areas threatened

by demolition – but there was also

the new challenge of car-dependent,

sprawling cities. The success of

“chaotic” cities such as Los Angeles

and Las Vegas was subject to discussion.

After graduating Scott Brown

joined the faculty and would teach

her students to look for hidden patterns,

spatial configurations and

forces influencing the development

of cities.

Scott Brown and Venturi met at a

faculty meeting in 1960 and initiated

what would become a life-long collaboration.

Scott Brown influenced

Venturi to consider complexity and

contradiction also in a “broader social

framework,” as architecture historian

Mary McLeod writes. Venturi’s

famous assessment of Main Street

as being “almost all right” can be

seen as a summary of Scott Brown’s

position. As an assistant professor

and later advocate planner, Scott

Brown argued for preserving what

worked for people, as opposed to

Modernist tabula rasa.

In 1965 Scott Brown was invited to

teach at UC Berkeley and at UCLA

in Los Angeles and made a stop in

Las Vegas on her way. The desert city

would remind Scott Brown of her

native Africa and she would later refer

to her way of perceiving it as “an

African view of Las Vegas.” She decided

to run a studio at the UCLA on

the city and returned three times on

her own. The plan changed after she

invited Venturi to join her for another

trip in November 1966. Two years

later Scott Brown and Venturi would

run the Las Vegas Studio together at

Yale School of Architecture.

In the studio, the city of Las Vegas

was used as a case-study for exploring

the readability of cities. The

car-dependent environment of high

speeds and vast distances had created

a “Pop landscape” with an

abundance of signs, as seen on the

[260] | AFTERWORDS

Fig. 1. Denise Scott Brown in her home in

Philadelphia in June 2019, discussing her

upcoming book Wayward Eye.

Photo: Carl C. Paatz

Fig. 2. Las Vegas, Architettura

Minore on The Strip, 1966

Photo: Denise Scott Brown

Fig. 3. Pico Boulevard, Santa Monica, 1966


| FRIDA GRAHN

[261]

ornate casino facades. The results

were compiled together with the

teaching assistant Steven Izenour

and published as Learning from Las

Vegas (1972). The treatise, which

would become one of the most referenced

texts on architectural theory,

presented universal conclusions

on the function on symbolism and

ornament in architecture. It would

argue for architecture as a vehicle

of meaning, thus diverging from

the abstraction of Late Modernism.

The notion became a cornerstone

for nascent Postmodernism, as seen

in Charles Jencks’ The Language of

Postmodern Architecture (1977).

Scott Brown’s expertise in urban

analysis was crucial for the investigation

of the new kind of city. Her

preoccupation with topics such as

readability, communication, and Pop

Art is seen in articles published in

the mid 1960s. A reoccurring theme

is how architects and planners can

learn from the Pop artists’ attentiveness

to the everyday. This was implemented

in the Las Vegas project,

where the Los Angeles-based artist

Ed Ruscha’s photographic style, seen

in his Every Building on Sunset Strip

(1966), would serve as an inspiration.

Another aspect inherited from Pop

Art was the artistic transformation of

sources. This can be seen in the work

of Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol,

and Claes Oldenburg, and also in

the architectural production of Scott

Brown, Venturi, and their partners.

The transformations took place

through a change of context, scale or

material of a conventional architectural

element, which can be exemplified

by the “ironic column” at Allen

Memorial Art Museum (1976) in

Oberlin, Ohio. It was crucial for them

to use references in a symbolic way

in order to avoid literal, historical

pastiche. By emphasizing this, Scott

Brown and Venturi sought to make

up for any misreading of Complexity

and Contradiction.

Scott Brown and Venturi would strive

to make architectural Postmodernism

more pluralist, artistic, and symbolic

– informed by the Pop Art movement.

Scott Brown played a crucial

role in this endeavor, contributing

considerably to recent architectural

history.

* * *

[262] | AFTERWORDS

Fig. 4. Mojave Desert, California, before end

of 1968


Fig. 5. Denise Scott Brown in front

of the Las Vegas Strip, 1966

Credit: the Archives of Robert

Venturi and Denise Scott Brown

Photo: Robert Venturi

Fig. 6. Guild House, Philadelphia, 2019 (Venturi

and Rauch, 1963)

Photo: Frida Grahn

Fig. 7. Institute for Scientific Information,

Philadelphia, 2019 (Venturi and Rauch, 1978)

Photo: Frida Grahn

| FRIDA GRAHN

[263]

A VIEW FROM THE GONDOLA:

NOTES ON HISTORY, SPECTACLE

AND MODERN ARCHITECTURE

Stanislaus von Moos

Compared to the certitudes of “Roma

Aeterna,” the gondola offers but

an unstable perspective, subject to

change in time and cultural weather

condition. For Filippo Tommaso

Marinetti, the author of the Manifesto

of Futurism, Venice was the very antithesis

to modernity: “Cloaca maxima

of passatism, playing field of antiquarians

and falsifiers, calamity of

universal snobbism and imbecility, a

bed worn through by caravans of lovers

. . . ,” etc. - and consequently, gondolas

were no more than “rocking

chairs for idiots”. 1 Yet, 100 years later

we have come around to acknowledging

that, rather than being its

opposite, the passatismo castigated

by Marinetti is a powerful aspect of

modernity: Byron’s “Ode to Venice”

of 1817, evoking “thirteen hundred

years of wealth and glory turned into

dust and tears,” along with Ruskin’s

incantations of the waves of the

Lagoon dangerously rippling against

the “Stones of Venice,” have since

transformed the city into one of the

twentieth century’s proverbial tourist

destinations and a typical backdrop

for fantasies of decay, crime, and

passion, culminating perhaps in the

video clip of Madonna’s 1984 song

“Like a Virgin” that would have chagrined

Ruskin, vexed Thomas Mann,

and perhaps amused Visconti.

This said, Robert Venturi and Denise

Scott Brown consider Rome, not

Venice, as the benchmark of their

work. A volume of their collected

essays is entitled A View from the

Campidoglio (1984) and before that,

an exhibition had already summarized

their trajectory as originating

in Rome (From Rome to Las Vegas,

1968). 2 Nor can one forget the crepuscular

cross-fading of Giambattista

Nolli’s eighteenth-century plan of

Rome with a sign of Caesars Palace

in Las Vegas (in the collage they submitted

to the “Roma Interrotta” exhibition

in 1978). Compared to the

overpowering presence of Rome in

the VSBA mythology the architects’

occasional references to Venice may

appear marginal. Yet in terms of many

among the issues involved in their

practice as architects—cultural, sociological,

architectural—it is tempting

nevertheless to choose Venice as a

viewpoint. After all that city has been,

and continues to be, the enlightened

Anglo-Saxon’s imaginary city par excellence,

and mass tourism has multiplied

that effect notably since the

1980s. As latter-day Grand Tourists,

Venturi and Denise Scott Brown have

spent more time in Rome than in any

other European city (and Rome is

clearly the vantage point from which

Complexity and Contradiction in

Architecture was written). - Yet I suspect

they seldom visited Italy without

stopping in Venice, Rome’s mythical

“Other,” and not only because of the

Biennale. 3

The spectacular, seemingly almost

1 : 1 reconstruction of the Doge’s

Palace and the Campanile di San

Marco, as well as the Rialto Bridge

and the Torre dell’Orologio at the foot

of the Venetian /Palazzo / Sands Expo

Megacenter in Las Vegas obviously

hadn’t existed when Learning from

Las Vegas was written (It was inau-

gurated in 1999 and appears to have

somewhat eclipsed Caesars Palace

since; Fig. 2). Together with the pasticcio

of Venetian palaces at its foot,

“the world’s largest hotel complex,”

whose 8108 rooms and suites are

stacked into a colossal piece of

quasi-Corbusian Ville Radieuse, is

a veritable empire within the entertainment

industry. Its prehistory

reaches back at least to the second

half of the nineteenth century, when

the “myth of Venice” 4 had become

a pan-European phenomenon that

resulted, among other things, in extravagant

reconstruc-tions of parts

of Venice at international fairs and

on fairgrounds, a history that by the

end of the twentieth century reached

a Pantagruelian climax in Las Vegas.

As a marketing idea, a trade-mark,

and a type of urban composition, The

Venetian has since been exported to

Asia, and so The “Venetian Macao”,

inaugurated in 2007, not only houses

the largest casino ever built since this

type was invented (in Venice, by the

way), but actually is also the world’s

largest inhabitable building altogether

(Fig. 3). 5 Meanwhile Venice itself,

with its rapidly shrinking population

(from 178,000 in 1950 to fewer than

60,000 in 2018), survives as the hub

of a global network of “Venetian”

destinations, all served by a booming

souvenir industry. Early in this

century, according to one source,

the city hosted 12 million tourists

per year, while in 2010 the count was

approximately 21 million i. e., an average

of 51,000 per day (except for

the carnival season when the number

explodes to 170,000), plus an

[264] | AFTERWORDS

increasing population of immigrant

workers who try to make a living in

the margins of the tourist boom. 6

The Ville Radieuse and Its Ghost

When architects and historians refer

to “spectacle” they often imply that

there must have been a time prior to

movies, television, and mass tourism

when architecture and urban

space were “authentic” and when

architects, unfettered by the mystification

caused by today’s media ecology,

were able to act directly upon

urbanity and the way it is lived. 7 Yet,

when exactly was this condition lost?

Some may think it happened with

the demise of Modern architecture,

but that of course is nonsense. As

to Venice, whose reverberation in

art covers half a millenium, it has

been so thoroughly intertwined with

its mediated representations as to

make it difficult to even imagine a

pre-spectacle condition. The universal

multiplication of the city’s image

in the culture of the veduta especially

since the eighteenth century,

and continuing with its replications

in the context of fairs and entertainment

venues either physical (from

The Venetian in Macao to the proverbial

corner pizzeria) or virtual (from

James Bond to Instagram), has been

around as a global phenomenon for

at least as long as tourism. It has left

the city with virtually no choice but

to perpetually restore itself as its

own petrified veduta. The 1964 Venice

Charter, which proscribed the “fake”

in restoration, may have altered the

terms of the process yet has not prevented

Venice from becoming the

world’s largest theme park. 8

Fig. 1. Learning From Las Vegas 1972, Original edition, design by Muriel Cooper.

As a result Venice and Modern architecture

continue to make an odd

couple, at least in terms of twentieth-century

stereotypes: Venice is

synonymous with the mystery of

art and the tears of decay against

a background of antiquated splendor,

while Modern architecture up

to World War II typically stands for

reason, progress, biotechnical expediency,

and socialism. Yet technological

progress also creates access and

thus brings about new spectacles

of history. Le Corbusier is a case in

point; not only was the phenomenon

“Modern Architecture,” which

he pioneered, itself an elaborately

staged media operation, but history

also played a topical role in it—and

precisely as “spectacle.” If his Plan

Voisin—the ultimate synonym of

technocratic and millenial solutions

to urban problems—implied the

demolition of historic urban tissue,

it did so (at least partly) by way of

selective preservation. The historic

monument survives as tourist commodity:

“the historic past, universal

patrimony, is respected. More

than that, it is saved,” Le Corbusier

insists. 9 The architect’s lifelong fascination

with the melancholic charms

of Venice is thus anything but a par-

| STANISLAUS VON MOOS

[265]

adox. 10 For a short moment, marrying

Venice to the “Ville Radieuse”

appeared to be almost within reach

when, after a visit to the city in 1934,

Le Corbusier tried to lure the industrial

magnate Giuseppe Volpi into

building a city of highrise apartment

blocks within sight of Venice, west of

Porto Marghera. While the proposal

never reached the project stage (not

even that of a generic master plan), 11

Le Corbusier turned to the existing

old city and produced a collage that

highlights its picturesque canals and

bridges as an anticipated Disneyland

(Fig. 5). The “rational-ization” proposed

by the high-rise city on the other

side of the nearby Porto Marghera

thus implies the romanticization of

the old city as a ready-made backdrop

for leisure and shopping. Here,

perhaps even more blatantly than

in the case of Paris (with its guard

of four Gratte-ciels cartésiens at the

foot of Montmartre, Fig. 4), modernity

and nostalgia depend on each

other and represent the two sides of

the coin, as with the casino that will

later reframe the formula as a simple

business proposition. 12

After World War II the demise of

functionalism and the universally

felt urgency of preservation (to be

codified in the Venice Charter) once

again secured the city a top rank

on Le Corbusier’s agenda. Rather

than the psychogeography of alleys

and canals that fascinated the

Situationists, it is the Piazza San

Marco that becomes Corbusier’s

stereotyped reference; it will be the

lodestar in the postwar CIAM’s call

for a “Humanization of the City.” 13

Granted, nothing resulted from the

architect’s relentless self-promotion

as an expert on tourism (“Organize

tourism, yet a tourism that would be

adorable, admirable, human, brotherly,

for simple people as well as for

the aristocrats and the millionaires

. . . ”)—and the conflicts between

conservation and re-use as well as

between elite and popular or mass

tourism they involve—except for

the hospital commission whose program,

a hotel for the sick, reframes

the type in terms of its quasi-biblical

origins in Samaritan mercy. 14

Mobility and “Flux”

Thanks to the automobile, the rubber

tire, and asphalt (a peculiar mix

of sand and tar that guarantees the

perfect combination of resistance

and smoothness to the runway), all

of Modernism’s romanticizations of

“speed” revolve around the promise

of flux. Flux is reflected in everyday

language, wherein a drive becomes

a cruise and a number of cars serving

the same purpose become a fleet.

This is seen even more so in design,

wherein cars are made to resemble

fish or birds stranded on beaches of

asphalt. For Le Corbusier the idea

that “the city that has speed has success”

is part of the dream and so is

Sigfried Giedion’s comparison of the

joy of the driver navigating the freeways

surrounding Manhattan to the

skier’s delight as he flies down the

slopes of the Swiss Alps (Fig. 7). 15

The photographer Stephen Shore

documents the promise of flux in its

most disillusioned form as the reality

of a street crossing in the American

Midwest: in his work the weather

is often gray (not sunny, as in all of

Le Corbusier’s renderings) and asphalt

is ubiquitous as a promise of

escape (Fig. 8). It is a world “at once

well known and remote, half remembered

and half forgotten” (Robert

Venturi). Shore captures the essence

of the American landscape “by framing

particular, ordinary elements so

that they reveal the universal and

the extraordinary. The viewpoint of

his camera is ( . . . ) that of our own

absentminded eyes as we wander

through familiar places doing ordinary

things—waiting for a bus or

running an errand.” 16 One is reminded

that in the late 1960s the Venturis,

aside from Las Vegas, also explored

Levittown as a topical site of the

contemporary sublime. A hint at Jeff

Wall’s 1969 book Landscape Manual

is enough to suggest just how much

in those years the sensibility for

the magic of the everyday coincided

with that of the New Landscape

Photography. 17 As to the aquatic metaphor

of flux, one can’t help noting

that one of the cars in Shore’s picture,

a small van, like a snail even

carries the mark of its amphibian

unconscious on its back in the form

of a barge, while immediately above

a sign says “Tires,” thus indicating

the technical means by which the

experience of “flow” has become a

universal form of life. Seen in this

perspective, Shore’s melancholic city

portrait indeed carries an echo of

Francesco Guardi and the tradition of

eighteenth-century vedute, with their

carefully crafted renderings of rustic

life (or, looking closer, unplanned

preindustrial sprawl), of often abandoned

farmhouses scattered amid

ruins and churches—idyllic archipelagos

surrounded not by asphalt

but by water (Figs. 8, 10). 18 Maybe

there is even more to be said on the

Venetian Lagoon and its nature as an

unencumbered circulation space and

precursor of the culture of sprawl: if

Los Angeles is a city that lives by the

car, Venice lives by the gondola. And,

more specifically: if Los Angeles as

a subject of photography is the city

as seen from the car as you drive

through it—as documented in Ed

Ruscha’s legendary Every Building

on the Sunset Strip (1966) and on another

level in Reyner Banham’s seminal

book and T V program on Los

Angeles—then Venice as a spectacle

has always, or at least since the advent

of modern tourism, also been a

spectacle to be seen from the gondola.

In either city, the car and the boat

allow the passenger to concentrate

on what he is looking at, i.e., to concentrate

on the spectacle seen lat-

[266] | AFTERWORDS

erally. 19 Ruscha’s continuous image

of Sunset Boulevard has often been

compared to the panoramic images

of famous street fronts published in

early tourist guides of London and

Paris. While Tallis’s London Street

Views of 1838–40 is a classic among

them, the somewhat earlier strip image

of the palaces along the Grand

Canal put together in 1828 by the

engineer Dionisio Moretti is even

more striking in our context (Fig. 9). 20

Only the gondola reveals the spectacle

documented in those images, as

Karl Friedrich Schinkel noted in 1803,

more than two decades earlier, when

he spoke about the “splendid and

powerful effect” that Venetian palaces

make along the Grand Canal “as

one rides past them.” 21 - No wonder

that it was indeed the gondola that

triggered the invention of the traveling

shot in film, owing to Alexandre

Promio, the cameraman who produced

the first such shots. Only the

gondola, as opposed to the horsedrawn

carriage on bumpy city streets,

was capable of securing the smoothness

of movement required for this

form of space-time representation of

urban space (1896). 22

“Duck” and “Decorated Shed”

That the first important film footage

devoted to Robert Venturi and Denise

Scott Brown—in Martin Filler’s 1983

documentary entitled “Beyond

Utopia”—was shot in Venice, but

begins with a sweeping celebration

of traffic flow on an American freeway,

may be a mere coincidence

(the film, by the way, also involves

a memorable passage showing Bob

and Denise in a gondola). 23 Soon

enough, however, the experience of

being flushed through space so as to

easily grasp the giant letters on the

BEST Products and BASCO facades

in Pennsylvania is abruptly stopped

as one finds oneself thrown onto

the Piazzetta San Marco. Here, in the

space between Sansovino’s Library

and the Doge’s Palace, using the two

buildings as the springboard for their

argument, Venturi and Scott Brown

sententiously unfold the tale of the

“duck” and the “decorated shed”

(Figs. 11, 12). 24 The two buildings

must have appeared to be the perfect

backdrop for their dimostrazione

of the nature and appropriateness of

the latter, as opposed to the former,

in architecture today.

However, the legendary “Pop” comparison

of duck and shed that is here

distilled from Renaissance Venice

also refers to more contemporary

contexts. Three years prior to the

shooting of the film Venice had become

something like the world capital

of Post-modernism. No better

platform could have been imagined

for polemics at the service of territorial

claims within the increasing

numbers of those who had grown

tired of Modernism. Millions must

have strolled through the Corderie

dell’Arsenale since 1980 when the

grandiose sixteenth-century structure

became accessible to the public

as the seat for the “First International

Exhibition of Architecture” (Fig. 25). 25

Paolo Portoghesi, the director of

the first Architecture Biennale, had

staged two parallel rows of ten ornamental

facade mock-ups forming

the two sides of what he called La

Strada Novissima—a grandiose way

for the twenty selected architects to

be incorporated into the canon of

architectural Postmodernism (that

some of the facades displayed an

overt reticence with regard to the installation’s

historicist agenda added

to its inclusivist allure). The Venturis

had first refused to be part of the

show; they didn’t feel like going out

to “play with the kids,” Denise Scott

Brown later reminisced. 26 But the curators

insisted, and Venturi, Rauch,

and Scott Brown finally submitted

a two-dimensional, i.e., strictly flat

stage-set-like, representation of a

burlesque “temple.” By organizing

the Strada Novissima in such a way

as to make sure that the Venturi facade

and “slot” would be situated directly

across from that of Robert A. M.

Stern’s, the curators thus involuntarily

clarified the American implications

of Venturi’s paragone of the National

Library as duck versus the Doge’s

Palace as decorated shed. 27 In fact

Stern’s exaggeratedly Sansovinian—

if not Napoleonian— portal with its

boldly rusticated columns made the

issue even clearer than the National

Library had done (or Le Corbusier’s

La Tourette, to which Venturi likes

to refer as an archetypal Modernist

duck): seen against the background

of the mercilessly flat Venturian

porch, the muscular articulations of

Stern’s classicism look even more

“ducky” (Figs. 13, 14).

Nor is it a coincidence that Venice appears

to be at stake, either as a location

or as a corpus of images, whenever

Venturi and Scott Brown pushes

the decorated shed to its polemical

extreme. Calling the Grand Canal

itself into the witness stand, the architects

claim that in the case of the

renovation of the Ponte dell’Accademia,

the structure itself need not

be beautiful - except for its applied

decoration (1985; Fig. 15). Like the

two-dimensional parody of a temple

front in the Corderie, the Ponte

dell’Accademia thus is a “polemical”

proposal, poignant in its perhaps

unintended sarcasm with respect to

Venice’s second nature as the closest

European relative of Las Vegas,

since the Cosmati-patterned bridge

sign would occupy the space of the

Grand Canal much like a place-name

sign occupies the space of a freeway—i.

e., positioned to catch the

driver’s attention instead of that of

the passenger. 28 The same goes for

the proposed mock-reconstruction

of the Doge’s Palace on a square in

Philadelphia and its Pop-Victorian

evocation of the Palace’s brick pattern

(Fig. 1). 29


[267]

Fig. 2. Venturi, Rauch & Scott Brown. Ponte dell’Accademia project. Collage, 1985.

Secret Physiology

As Neil Levine has demonstrated,

the theory of the duck and the decorated

shed addresses fundamental

issues of nineteenth- and twentieth-century

architectural thought. 30

In a Modernist context, where the exterior

of a building needs to express

the functions within, the decorated

shed restores the idea of the facade

and its relative autonomy with respect

to how buildings are made and

how they want to be used. Yet none

of the buildings produced by Venturi

Scott Brown & Associates in the forty

years since the duck and the decorated

shed entered the stage could seriously

be ranked as a pure example of

either of those types, not to mention

the work done before Learning from

Las Vegas. Retroactively applied to

most buildings ever done by the firm,

the pair of concepts hardly scratches

the surface. Is what architects choose

to rationalize as theory (let alone

Pop theory) inevitably also a way of

diverting the public’s attention from

what is specific about a work?

Theoretical preoccupations don’t

necessarily match with job opportunities.

Gaps between theory and

built work are therefore inevitable.

Venturi and Scott Brown note that the

“modest” programs they had been

confronted with at the beginning of

their careers prevented them from

realizing “rich,” i. e., truly “complex,”

projects. 31 Rather than exemplifying

complexity and contradiction, among

the best known early projects—most

emblematically, the Fire Station No. 4

in Columbus, Indiana— in fact anticipated

the idea of the decorated shed.

But, by the time the decorated shed

was theorized in Learning from Las

Vegas in 1972, the firm began tackling

large projects of institutional

buildings that, for inviting multiple

complexities and contradictions,

could not possibly be dealt with adequately

in terms of the categories of

duck and shed. In short, by the time

the architects analyzed Las Vegas,

the findings of the study were no

longer central to their own projects.

The critic / historian has therefore no

other choice but to develop a sixth

sense for the unspoken concerns that

go into making these projects. And

the “blind passengers” in their theory,

for better or for worse, are many

things except “Pop,” “Complexity,” or

“Contradiction.” Generally, in the case

of Venturi and Scott Brown, those implied

concerns refer to the conventional

ABC of Modernist design and

involve familiar notions of pragmatism,

functionalism, and organicism.

One may even go one step further:

in so far as their organicist functional-ism

transcends ergonomics and

technics and aims towards what the

architects perceive as a sociobiological

logic of human relations, it could

be described as “transcendentalist.”

In the end, history and theory—what

we tend to subsume as either eclecticism

or historicism—are part of this

more encompassing agenda. 32

The paradigms of flux or fluidity,

and the mix of techniques necessary

for translating fluidity into built substance,

are topical in the firm’s adaptations

of “organicist” approaches to

form. The unbuilt Yale Mathematics

Building addition may have little to

do with Venice, unless one wants

to associate its shape with the bow

of a ship (Fig. 16). For Colin Rowe

the “clumsy” juxtaposition of old

and new in this project is a sign of

Venturi’s failure to deal successfully

with the problem of bulk imposed

by the brief. Yet, should this “failure”

not rather be seen as part of an aesthetic

program or even as part of a

design strategy concerned with the

nature of the city as the physical result

of growth processes? 33 - And, by

the way, is not the “oversized” mass

of Ignazio Gardella’s House on the

Zattere in Venice (1953–58) an intrigu-

[268] | AFTERWORDS

ing precedent, especially considering

its awkward dialogue with its much

smaller neighbor (a church)? 34 A

somewhat different result is reached

in the Sainsbury Wing of the National

Gallery in London, with contours that

passively follow the existing rooflines

and street pattern while also accomodating

highly conflicting needs of the

program. The strategy is one of camouflage,

and while the surface of the

building appears to be merely mimicking

the given architectural and urban

contexts, the overall effect is that

of a plant- or fungus-like excretion.

Echoing features of Wilkins’s neoclassical

museum facade, the new building

turns them into a “soft” configuration,

a body without bones, like one

of Oldenburg’s “Soft Plugs” - or the

heaps of tar spilled down a hillside in

one of Robert Smithson’s drawings

(Fig. 18). Intriguingly, San Barnaba, a

seventeenth-century church in Venice,

appears to have helped translate this

unspoken program into architectural

form. 35

. . . and the “Fluid City”

How could the architectural “body

language” or “secret physiology” of

these and many other projects by the

firm fit into the terminology of duck

and decorated shed? Before serving

the logic of Pop, this “secret physiology”

articulates the vital issues

of space and circulation, as perhaps

any architecture must do. In this respect

the biomorphology of these

shapes relates to an understanding

of the city as the result of process and

of curvilinear movement within ever-changing

contextual parameters of

growth—in short, to an understanding

of the city as “fluid,” indeterminate,

and systems-driven rather than

form-driven. 36

As with most cities of the past the

growth inscribed in these footprints

has occurred incrementally, by movements

of expansion and contraction

responding to the changing parameters

of a given topography and circulation

pattern. Flow, by definition, follows

the law of gravity—valleys and

canyons are shaped in this way, loops

of rivers, deltas built up by the ongoing

deposit of sed-iment, etc.—but

in the universe of civilization, there

is arguably no better example for an

aquatic determinism of urban form

than Venice. Like a liver or a heart displayed

on the operating table, served

by its blood vessels, the city appears

on sixteenth- century maps (such as

those of Jacopo de Barbari, dated

1500, and of Benedetto Bordone, dated

1528), as well as contemporary

hydro-graphic schemes: powerful

prefigurations of what Fumihiko Maki

may have had in mind when he spoke

of “fluid cities” (Fig. 19). 37 Torcello, a

one-hour vaporetto ride from Venice,

is today’s best illustration of the city’s

origins from “the primordial fluid that

slowly coagulates and allows vegetation

to grow on the mud that is the origin

of life,” as Marcel Brion and René

Huyghe put it. 38 As to the basic rectangles

of palaces, shipyards, churches,

etc. that constitute the urban fabric,

they can’t help being stretched and

squeezed in order to fit into the curvilinear

city form. Even the Basilica

di San Marco, the Doge’s Palace, and

the Piazza San Marco itself have to

painstakingly negotiate their orthogonal

layout with the organoid form

of the city as a whole (Figs. 20, 21).

It is hard not to be struck by the way

the plan of Venturi and Scott Brown’s

National Gallery extension in London

resonates with the site plan of Piazza

San Marco and even with San Marco

itself (Figs. 17, 21). In either case, rectangularly

organized interiors are

accommodated within irregularly defined

sites, resulting in rhomboidal

interstices that turn out to be uniquely

vivid urban “rooms.”

The “fluid” city as a concept did not

originate in Venice, yet the Venetian

Lagoon that so powerfully forced its

blueprint upon the city’s form appears

to have offered an inspiring context

for the study of the dynamics at work

in the life of cities and of the patterns

that determine urban growth. 39

The CIAM Summer School held in

Venice in 1956 was a turning point in

that respect. It was run by Giuseppe

Samonà, the head of the Istituto

universitario di architettura, Venezia

(Iuav) jointly with Franco Albini, but

the gray eminence among the faculty

was Ludovico Quaroni. That year

marked both the beginning of CIAM’s

terminal agony and the emergence of

Team 10. 40 As the architect Gabriele

Scimeni reported in Casabella, the

Athens Charter was already considered

totally obsolete by the younger

generation of CIAM architects who

ran the school. 41 Instead of understanding

the city in terms of static

functions, they began to study socioeconomic

and circulatory forces as

key factors of its underlying dynamics.

A group of the summer school

participants—among them Denise

and her first husband Robert Scott

Brown—proposed using the transportation

lines connecting Venice,

Mestre, and Marghera as generators

of settlement form. Other groups explicitly

visualized “flows” as models

of urban form in their plans. 42 If this

paradigmatic shift away from CIAM

dogma cannot be attributed to the

flows that determined the making of

Venice, the idea of flow had certainly

been topical in the students’ work and

in the thinking of Ludovico Quaroni

who was a determined advocate

of the unity of architecture and city

planning. Quaroni used to sketch vigorous

drawings of cityscapes on tracing

paper “which found their inspiration

in Venice’s primary and natural

element, water.” 43 Though in the long

run the social sciences were more

decisive in shaping her approach to

planning and architecture, Denise

Scott Brown may not have been

altogether insensible to Quaroni’s

aquatic visualizations of urban phe-


[269]

nomena. 44 Note that flow was a popular

metaphor in the social sciences

at this time too. A few years after the

Summer School the sociologist David

Crane, Scott Brown’s student advisor

at Pennsylvania University (and her

“role model as studio teacher”), 45

referred to the “navigational analogy”

in city planning as a key to the

Dynamic City idea that involves the

idea of future change as a determinant

of form as well as “time as the

fourth dimen-sion in design.” Crane’s

philosophy of form change could

not be more topical in this context.

In this essay, entitled “Chandigarh-

Reconsidered,” Crane can be said to

have written the brief of what Venturi

and Scott Brown were later to aestheticize

and materialize as architecture. 46

The Venice of Ludovico Quaroni appears

to have directly participated in

this “decide-as-you-go city making

idea” postulated by Crane. The very

kernel of the latter-day CIAM’s answer

to the Ville Radieuse lies here.

“Iconic Recyclings” and

Metaphysical Disgust

When in 1985, the year of Aldo Rossi’s

Biennale, Manfredo Tafuri in his book

Venezia e il Rinascimento lambasted

the “iconic recyclings” that had

become characteristic of recent architecture,

he did not think of Disney

World, much less Las Vegas or Macao

(the two Venetian complexes were

built more than ten years after his

book was published). Nor is it clear

whom he had in mind when he spoke

of architects practicing in Venice and

their alleged problem with the city:

“Fascinated by a crystallized continuity,

often mistaken as a matter of simple

organic growth— synonymous

with a lost quality that some believe

should be reconquered—they are

unable to stand the challenge that

Venice represents in their eyes. They

multiply the attempts at violence

and treason, with sadistic traits only

poorly veiled behind the masks of

the ‘respectful project,’ the ‘friendly

past,’ the ‘Nuovo Capriccio,’ the

mummification, the ephemeral revitalization.”

47 Did he think of Venturi,

Rauch and Scott Brown’s Ponte

dell’Accademia project that had just

been assigned the “Leone di pietra”

in 1985? The term “capriccio,” of

course, brings to mind Canaletto and

his “surreal” groupings of famous

historic projects and buildings in the

midst of an idealized Venice. Aldo

Rossi has resuscitated the genre: one

of his architectural pastiches from

the same year 1985 brings together

the Chiesa delle Zitelle in Venice with

the so-called house of Palladio in

Vicenza, the famous wooden bridge

in Bassano, and Rossi’s own temporary

entrance building to the Corderie

dell’Arsenale in Venice, all grouped

around the latter’s enigmatic Teatro

del Mondo, rocking on its raft in the

waters of the Lagoon (Fig. 24). 48

When, more than one and a half

centuries before Rossi, Lord Byron

meditated about Venice and her “silent

rows of songless gondoliers”

and her palaces that are “crumbling

to the shore,” the causes were abandonment

and poverty. After World

War II similar conditions prevailed

and the city had little choice but to

stake its future on tourism. Be that

as it may, the moment had come

to “accept the romantic hypothesis

of stylistic re-make up to the brutal

point of copy,” Rossi wrote, when, in

1978, he proposed a 1 : 1 reconstruction

of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi next

to the railway station in an optimistic

attempt to highlight the city’s sense

of identity. 49 In hindsight, it may have

been one of his most visionary utterings.

For, while his critic friends castigated

the increasing gap between

project and reality in such proposals

and the tendency among architects

to “retreat into narrow cubicles of

metaphore,” 50 the “brutality of stylistic

re-make” resulted in yet another

heyday of architectural replication -

be it in the form of extravagant miniatures

of the Doge’s Palace (as in

Disneyworld, Orlando) or, much later,

in der form of colossal “Venetian”

casino complexes around the world.

As for Tafuri, he concentrated on digging

into the archive of Venice’s architectural

patrimony, occasionally

investing his formidable energy into

projects of conservative restoration.

Meanwhile his one-time political and

academic allies, now in charge of

the city’s administration, appeared

to have no choice but to look out for

new ways of negotiating archaeology,

preservation, welfare politics, cultural

spectacle, and tax politics (not

to mention bold maritime engineering)

in order to slow down the city’s

seemingly fatal decline.

As a result of this “New Realism” in

architectural and urban politics, the

“real” Fondaco dei Tedeschi, located

at the heart of the city and adjacent to

the Rialto Bridge, its most cherished

tourist attraction, has become another

hub of Venice’s second nature as

the world’s archetypal Disneyland, as

Rem Koolhaas and OMA transformed

it into the Lagoon’s most beautiful

shrine of high-end consumption.

While carefully restoring the building’s

envelope, the architects covered

its once open court-yard with a spectacular

viewing platform, thus duplicating

the sixteenth- century crenellation

by a frieze of visitors responding

to their fellow tourists cruising the

Grand Canal on the vaporetto below

(Fig. 26). 51

Alla Veneziana?

With Palladio’s Quattro libri (1570),

Serlio’s Tutte l’opere d’architettura

(1584), and Ruskin’s Stones (1851–53),

Venice long ago entered the universe

of canonic references in Western architecture.

As a result of this, when

Colin Rowe engaged in the study of

Le Corbusier’s handling of proportion,

nothing appeared more obvi-

[270] | AFTERWORDS

ous to him than to place the latter’s

Villa Stein in Garches of 1927 next to

Palladio’s Villa Foscari—known more

commonly as La Malcontenta—as

an archetype of the “Mathematics of

the Ideal Villa.” 52 Such posthumous

contaminations prove little in terms

of actual influence, while illustrating

plainly the degree to which the

flow of images has been intrinsic

to architectural culture throughout

the first half of the twentieth century.

53 With Le Corbusier this flow was

merely implied; in the universe of

Venturi and Scott Brown it became

a reservoir of references that the

architects chose to deliberately play

with. The bridge proposal that Rossi

admired, or the Disneyesque dummy

of the Doge’s Palace to be erected

in Philadelphia (Figs. 1; 15), were

not the only Venetian moments in

Venturi and Scott Brown’s complete

works: in the firm’s often used ornamental

facade patterns (as in the

Allen Memorial Museum addition in

Oberlin, OH) or more generally the

“flatbed” treatment of the facade,

the presence of the thermal window

in so many of their projects echoes

canonic themes of Italian architecture,

including contemporary variations

such as Giuseppe Vaccaro’s

church in Recoaro (1953). 54 Venice as

an urban conglomerate provides the

most obvious model for Venturi and

Scott Brown’s parenthetical method

of combining them into complex

and contradictory wholes. That the

Guild House in Philadelphia (1963)

by Venturi and William Short reminds

one of Palladio, as well as partly

anonymous Venetian buildings and

sites, is thus not necessarily owing

to a specifically Postmodern condition.

What is new, in comparison to

Corbusier’s Villa Stein, is that the adaptation

of historic imagery is explicit

and limited to the facade. - As to the

quasi-thermal window of the Guild

House, the minuscule reproduction

of Palladio’s Villa Zeno in Cessalto

in Complexity and Contradiction in

Architecture would hardly be necessary

as a clue . 55

More specifically Postmodern, in

turn, is the emphatically urban character

of the architectural composition

that constitutes Guild House.

While the plan mostly obeys a

functional-organicist logic typical

of the incremental dynamics of city

growth—Venetian or not—the dominant

central part with its whitewashed

base and suggested colossal

order accentuates the hierarchy

that defines the relation between

the formal core building and its

more “contemporary” lateral wings,

similar to what we find in many sixteenth-century

Venetian churches,

convents, and hospices (Figs. 27,

28). 56 In a quirky way the articulation

of the facade even relates to an eighteenth-century-ruins

aesthetic, as reflected

in Guardi’s vedute. Speaking

of the openings cut into the thin “immaterial”

brick facade so as to reveal

the “cheap” concrete frame behind

it, it is difficult not to think of Gordon

Matta-Clark and many of his somewhat

later works (such as his 1974

“Splitting” and 1975 “Day’s End”),

where the “ruin”-effect of revelation

is dramatized by actually wrecking

the given structure.

“Venice is made of a number of unambiguous

elements,” Le Corbusier

stated in a lecture given at the 1952

CIAM Summer School (not the one

Scott Brown attended): “. . . so that it

is possible to recognize in Venice the

entire range of typical manifestations

of architecture and urbanism.” The

verticality of domes, facades with

classical pediments, and bridges—as

well as gondolas—are the constituent

elements of this Venetian vocabulary,

plus what Le Corbusier called the

“stairwells to the sky” located in the

city’s essential locations: “the bridges,

certain bridges, on which the crowds

are moving. . . . I call them ‘stair-wells

to the sky’. . . forms [that] are eminent,

essential, decisive for architecture

as well as urbanism . . . ”. 57 Domes

and facades with classical pediments

were taboo for Le Corbusier’s generation,

yet not so the stair, synonymous

as it is with a form of circulation that

is necessarily pedestrian. Gordon

Cullen, a generation younger than

Le Corbusier, codified the rhetoric

of the stair for the Townscape movement

when he mused about “those

times when, walking up a road one is

convinced that the sea is beyond the

crest. Here that sense of immediacy

is caught and perpetuated in architecture

when it comes down the stairs.”

Variations on the theme of “les escaliers

du ciel” were also present in

the work of Venturi and Scott Brown,

as they had been, by the way, in the

work of Paul Rudolph. Interrupting

the flow of people pushing through

the streets, stairs function like a beam

of light, instantly transforming the

crowd on which it is projected into a

group of individuals. Le Corbusier’s

sketch is about that moment: a crowd

seen from afar that becomes a flock

of individuals, each of them a dot

that emerges on the horizon before

evaporating into nothing (Fig. 6). In

her 1983 series of photographs titled

Suite vénitienne, accompanied by an

essay by Jean Baudrillard entitled

“Please Follow Me,” the artist Sophie

Calle documents her trailing of an

unknown man, randomly selected,

through the maze of Venice’s streets

over the course of twelve days. As

she follows the man, street by street,

bridge by bridge, it is the stairs that

intermittently close the vistas along

the narrow Venetian “Calle,” allowing

her to focus on her subject, albeit

momentarily. Literally en passant, the

artist thus managed to take the pulse

of what makes the singular urbanity

of this city (Fig. 30). 58

Suite vénitienne may be called a cinematographic

work, if not a variation

on a theme often foregrounded in

movies - such as in Visconti’s “Morte a


[271]

Venezia”: A group of tourists rushing

through a Venetian alley emerges in

the distance, running up the stairs of

a bridge, searchingly examined by a

despaired follower. In the next scene,

the haunter, Gustav von Aschenbach,

is himself caught up by the camera

as he rushes towards that vanishing

point, harassed by beggars and jobless

gondoliers in the very moment

he is climbing the stairs. Venetian

painting often exploited the scenic

potential of stairs, as seen in wellknown

works by Veronese, Tintoretto,

and Titian, among others. As has

Venetian statecraft: by its freestanding

position in the courtyard of the

Doge’s Palace and its combination

with the elevated tribuna at its top,

the Scala dei Giganti is an archetype

of the ceremonial stairway. Its location

directly opposite the Clock Tower

of San Marco but separated from the

campanile by a tunnel created by a

long arcade (“key-hole,” as Gordon

Cullen would have called it), transforms

whatever act is performed on

it into a public spectacle. This effect

was made all the more magic owing

to the Scala’s physical remoteness

from the public arena of the Piazzetta

(Figs. 21, 32). It is no coincidence that

the painter Delacroix, who had never

been to Venice, in one of his most famous

works erroneously located the

legendary decapitation of the fourteenth-century

Doge Marino Faliero

on the steps of the Scala dei Giganti

(1825–26), thus initiating a tradition

of bloodthirsty nineteenth-century

history painting featuring this scene

with the flight of steps as a backdrop

(cf. Fig. 31). 59 It is interesting that

Denise Scott Brown explicitly refers

to the Scala dei Giganti in connection

with one of the firm’s earlier projects

(Fig. 33). 60 Seen in this perspective,

the main stairwell of Gordon Wu

Hall at Princeton, not to mention

the main reception and channeling

space of the Sainsbury Wing of the

National Gallery in London, may be

far more Venetian in character that

the firm’s Pop use of a Cosmati pattern

for the decoration of the Ponte

dell’Accademia.

* * *

Fifty years after Learning from Las Vegas,

Venice is still Venice (technically so), whereas

Las Vegas does not look even remotely like it

did when Venturi and Scott Brown invented the

“duck” and the “decorated shed.” Granted that,

as architects, they have remained marginal in

the present universe of architectural spectacle:

their commitment to the unspectacular variant

of the decorated shed has made much of

their firm’s work look somewhat woolly compared

to the ducks produced by a majority of

their colleagues—though this quality is also

what makes the work intriguing to those who

grant architecture a second glance. May the

irony often implied in their historicism have

turned out to be equivocal in terms of both the

Empire of the Fake-Venetian and of mainstream

Modernism: What Venturi and Scott Brown

claimed to have learned from Las Vegas is obviously

only part of the story with respect to the

strategies of perception, the body language,

the social rhetoric, the space conception, the

stage-craft, and the elaborate graphics at work

in the making of their architecture. As to the

theoretical shortcuts they have distilled from

a historical context that is now gone—the Las

Vegas Strip of the 1960s—they have altered our

understanding of the last two centuries of architectural

history. No wonder the “duck” and

the “decorated shed” still rumble in the architectural

studio jargon. 61

Notes

1. Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Guerra, Sola

Igiene Del Mondo (Milano: Edizioni Futuriste

de Poesia, 1915), 53 ff.; and Marinetti, Umberto

Boccioni, Carlo Carrà, and Luigi Russolo,

“Contro Venezia passatista,” in Archivi del

Futurismo, eds. M. Drudi Gambillo and T. Fiori

(Rome: De Luca Editore, 1958), 19. The text had

been stamped on pamphlets and was dropped

from the Torre dell’Orologio on April 27, 1910.

An early version of the present essay had

been delivered as the introductory talk to the

2010 Yale conference, “Architecture after Las

Vegas,” which may account for its somewhat

kaleidoscopic and meandering logic. Among

the friends and colleagues who provided

subsequent occasions to present my thoughts,

as well as help and advice, I am particularly

grateful to Carolina Vaccaro, Maristella

Casciato, Dorothée Imbert, Martino Stierli,

+Karin Theunissen, William Whitaker, Florian

Sauter and Francesco Dal Co.

2. Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown,

A View from the Campidoglio, eds. Peter

Arnell, Ted Bickford, and Catherine Bergart

(Cambridge, Philadelphia, San Francisco,

London: Icon Editions, 1984); on the exhibition

“From Rome to Las Vegas”, shown at the

Philadelphia Art Alliance in 1968, see Venturi,

Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour, Learning

from Las Vegas (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,

1972), 125. More recently, Martino Stierli has

discussed the relevance of Venturi’s Rome

experience for his work and thought in “In the

Academy’s Garden: Robert Venturi, the Grand

3. I am not concerned with biography in this

paper except for noting that at least four

among my personal encounters with the

Venturis were scheduled in Venice: one among

them, in 1984, included a visit of the Carlo

Scarpa exhibit at the Accademia together with

its curator, Francesco Dal Co. As to the idea

of Venice as “Rome’s counterimage,” it is a

classical trope in art history as discussed by

Eduard Hüttinger in “Il Mito Di Venezia,” in

Venezia Vienna. Il mito della cultura veneziana

nella cultura asburgica, ed. Carlo Pirovano

(Milano: Electa, 1983), 187–226 and in particular

198–201. Tour and the Revision of Modern

Architecture,” in AA Files, 2007, pp. 56–63.

4. For a summary of the late nineteenth and

early twentieth-century “myths of Venice” see

Francesco Dal Co in “Venezia e il moderno,”

in 10 Immagini per Venezia (Rome: Officina

Edizioni, 1980), 9–11; for a more circumstantial

discussion see Dal Co, Massimo Cacciari, and

Manfredo Tafuri, “Il Mito di Venezia,” Rassegna,

(vii) 22.2 (1985): 7–9.

5. For an illustrated summary of information

regarding the Venetian syndrome see Wolfgang

Scheppe and the IUAV Class on Politics of

Representation, Migropolis: Venice /Atlas of a

[272] | AFTERWORDS

Global Situation (Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz, 2009),

vol. I, 54–63; vol. II, 1228–51.

6. The impossibility of calculating exact

population figures and tourist / inhabitant

ratios in the case of Venice has already been

discussed by Aldo Bonomi in Il distretto del

piacere (Torino: Bollati Boringhieri, 2000),

42–43 (consequently, the figures vary from one

author to the other); see, e.g., Robert C. Davis

and Garry R. Marvin, Venice: The Tourist Maze

(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004),

4, 55; Franco Mancuso, Venezia è una città.

Come è stata costruita e come vive (Venezia:

Corte del Fontego, 2009), 138–44; and Scheppe,

Migropolis, vol. I, 510–49. On the role of the

immigrant workers in Venice’s economy see

Scheppe, Migropolis, vol. II, 678–921. Tourism

as the origin of Venice’s inescapable downfall

has long been a journalistic trope. One more

recent example is Raffaele Oriani, “Venezia

ultimo atto,” Il venerdì di Repubblica (October 7,

2016): 48–53.

7. “Spectacle” has become a key issue in

discussions of architecture and urban space

in capitalism since Guy Debord’s La société

du spectacle (Paris: Buchet-Chastel, 1967). I

am borrowing the term “media ecology” from

McLain Clutter, Imaginary Apparatus: New

York City and Its Mediated Representation

(Zurich: Park Books, 2015). In the introduction

to his book Clutter offers a succinct summary

of the premises and reverberations of the

notion of “spectacle” in writings such as Jean

Baudrillard’s Amérique (Paris: Grasset, 1986),

M. Christine Boyer’s The City of Collective

Memory (Cambridge, MA / London: MIT Press,

1994), and Michael Sorkin’s “See You in

Disneyland,” in Variations on a Theme Park: The

New American City and the End of Public Space

(New York: The Noonday Press, 1992), 205–32.

Clutter uses New York as an example of how

capacities historically grounded in architecture,

like framing the common experience or

representing community, are now “shared by

mediated representations. Rather than deny,

lament, or resist this disciplinary slippage,”

he continues, architects and urban designers

should “engage the vaporized disciplinary

border between urban reality and representation

as the context in which any project

for the contemporary city must be conceived”

(Clutter, Imaginary Apparatus, 32). What follows

makes Venturi and Scott Brown’s engagement

with mass culture as theorized in Learning from

Las Vegas—and perhaps even more so their

built work—look like an anticipated response to

this admonition.

8. Aldo Bonomi, Il distretto, 42. See also

Martino Stierli’s review of Wolfgang Scheppe’s

book in this context: “Die Europäische Stadt in

Zeiten der Globalisierung,” NZZ 13 (November

2009).

9. Le Corbusier, Urbanisme (Paris: Crès, 1925),

272–73.

10. See in particular Le Corbusier’s notes

on Venice in Quand les cathédrales étaient

blanches (Paris: Plon, 1937) and the discussion

of Le Corbusier’s notion of the historic city as

“museum” in Manfredo Tafuri, Teorie e storia

dell’architettura (Bari: Laterza, 1970, originally

published in 1968), 68–74.

11. As had similar proposals in the cases of

Antwerp, Barcelona, Stockholm, Nemours,

or indeed Paris; see Le Corbusier, La Ville

Radieuse (Paris: Vincent Fréal & Cie., 1964,

originally published in 1933), 268–87, 305–18; Le

Corbusier et Pierre Jeanneret: Oeuvre Complete:

1929–1934, ed. Willy Boesiger (Zurich:

Girsberger /Artemis Verlag für Architektur,

1964), 156–59; Le Corbusier et Pierre Jeanneret:

Oeuvre complète 1934–1938, ed. Max Bill

(Zurich: Girsberger /

12. Le Corbusier et Pierre Jeanneret: Oeuvre

complète 1934–1938, 46 ff. Note that the radical

“cleaning up” of the Louvre as proposed by

the plan literally anticipates the project of the

“Grand Louvre” as enacted under President

François Mitterrand in the 1980s.

Artemis Verlag für Architektur, 1958), 26–29,

46 ff. For the details of the Venice episode

see Antonio Foscari, “À Venise en 1934,” in

L’Italie de Le Corbusier, ed. Marida Talamona

(Paris: Fondation Le Corbusier /Editions de la

Villette, 2010), 200–09; and for a more general

discussion of Le Corbusier and Venice, my “Le

Corbusier, Tourism, and the Myth of Venice,”

Liber Amicorum Max Risselada, eds. Dick

van Gameren and Dirk van de Heuvel (Delft:

Delft University of Technology Department of

Architecture, 2014), 46–67.

13. Jacqueline Tyrwhitt, José Luis Sert, and

Ernesto N. Rogers, eds., The Heart of the City:

Towards the Humanization of Urban Life (New

York: Pellegrini and Cudahy, 1952). Like many of

Le Corbusier’s sketches of historic cityscapes,

the view of Piazza San Marco reproduced in

Propos d’urbanisme (Paris: Éditions Bourrelier,

1946) dates from his 1915 visits to the

Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.

14. The quote is from a letter Le Corbusier

wrote to Giovanni Favaretto Fisca, Mayor of

Venice, October 3, 1962; see Stanislaus von

Moos, “Alla Veneziana. Le Corbusier, il turismo,

e la crisi dell’utopia,” in L’Italia di Le Corbusier,

ed. Marida Talamone (Rome/Milan: MA X XI /

Electa, 2012), 201. On the hospital project see

Valeria Farinati, H VEN LC Hôpital de Venise.

Inventario analitico degli atti nuovo ospedale

(Venezia and Mendrisio: IUAV/Archivio del

moderno, Accademia di architettura, 1999) and

Amadeo Petrilli, Il testamento di Le Corbusier.

Il progetto per l’ospedale di Venezia (Venice:

Marsilio, 1999).

15. Le Corbusier, Urbanisme (Paris: Crès,

1925), and Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and

Architecture (Cambridge: Harvard University

Press, 1974, originally published in 1941), 825.

16. Robert Venturi in a note on the dust cover

of Stephen Shore, Uncommon Places: The

Complete Works (London/ New York: Thames &

Hudson, 2004).

17. See, e.g., Jeff Wall, “Über das Machen von

Landschaften /About Making Landscapes,”

in Jeff Wall: Landscapes and Other Pictures

(Wolfsburg: Kunstmuseum Wolfsburg / Cantz,

1996), 8–12; and Carter Ratcliff, “Route 66

Revisited: The New Landscape Photography,”

Art in America no. 64 (January/February 1976).

18. On Francesco Guardi and the Venetian

veduta see in particular Bernard Aikema and

Boudwijn Bakker, Painters of Venice: The Story

of the Venetian “Veduta” (Amsterdam: Den

Haag / Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, 1990); Dario

Succi, “Veduta. Il vedere, la vista. Lat. visus,”

in Luca Carlevarijs e la veduta veneziana del

settecento, eds. Isabella Reale and Dario Succi


[273]

(Milan: Electa, 1994), 15–20; and Annalisa

Scarpa Sonnino, Maurizio Fagiolo Dell’Arco,

and Ferdinando Perretti, Landscapes and

Veduta Paintings: Venice and Rome in the 18 th

Century (Helsinki: Sinebrychoff Art Museum,

1996).

19. Ed Ruscha, Every Building on the Sunset

Strip (Los Angeles: National Excelsior

Press, 1966) and Reyner Banham, Los

Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies

(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971). The best

discussion of Ruscha is by Alexandra Schwartz,

Ed Ruscha’s Los Angeles (Cambridge, MA /

London: MIT Press, 2010), 146–60.

20. On Tallis and Ruscha see Martino Stierli,

Las Vegas in the Rearview Mirror: The City in

Theory, Photography and Film (Los Angeles:

Getty Research Institute, 2013), 134–36.

21. See Kurt W. Forster, “Schinkel’s Panoramic

Planning of Central Berlin,” Modulus 16 (1983):

62–77.

discourse was the cause for its long-lasting

resonance. Szacka, Exhibiting the Postmodern:

The 1980 Venice Architecture Biennale (Venice:

Marsilio, 2016), 31. The founding texts regarding

the exhibition are Paolo Portoghesi, “La Fine

Del Proibizionismo,” in La Presenza del Passato.

Prima Mostra Internazionale di Architettura, ed.

Carlo Pirovano (Venice: Edizioni La Biennale di

Venezia, 1980), 9–13; and Pirovano, “La Strada

Novissima,” 38–48.

26. Apparently varying a remark once made by

Frank Lloyd Wright; see Szacka, Exhibiting the

Postmodern, 160.

27. According to Francesco Cellini, one of the

curators, apart from technical considerations

the disposition of the pavilions was “purely

random.” But can the centrality of the two

pavilions and their direct confrontation across

the alley have been a coincidence given

Stern’s role as the coordinator of the American

participants? See Szacka, Exhibiting the

Postmodern, 148.

Patterns,” in Robert Venturi and Denise Scott

Brown, Architecture as Signs and Systems for a

Mannerist Time (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap

Press of Harvard University Press, 2004),

120–41.

33. Colin Rowe, “Robert Venturi and the Yale

Mathematics Building,” Oppositions 6 (fall

1976), 11–19.

34. “An uneasy dweller” despite its precious

detailing, as Margaret Plant notes in Venice,

Fragile City: 1797–1997 (New Haven / London:

Yale University Press, 2002), 344.

35. The columnar order of the facade is here

folded across the corner so as to be seen from

the streets that approach the facade sideways.

In a 2009 conversation, Denise Scott Brown

has confirmed that this detail played a role in

the conception of the “syncopated” columns

used at the National Gallery. For images of the

Sainsbury Wing see von Moos, Venturi, Scott

Brown & Associates, 122–39.

22. Stierli, Las Vegas in the Rearview Mirror, 162,

186. Promio used a stationary camera inside

a gondola for the 1896 Lumière brothers film

“Panorama du Grand Canal pris d’un bateau”.

23. Martin Filler, Beyond Utopia: Changing

Attitudes in American Architecture (New York:

Blackwood Productions, 1983).

24. For the “canonic” version of this

programmatic opposition see Denise Scott

Brown, Robert Venturi, and Steven Izenour,

Learning from Las Vegas, (Cambridge, MA:

MIT Press, 1972; rev. ed., 1977), 88 ff.; and for

a discussion of the implications and potential

limits of the theory of duck and decorated

shed in the discussion of buildings see Aaron

Vinegar, “The Melodrama of Expression and

Inexpression in the Duck and Decorated Shed,”

in Relearning from Las Vegas, eds. Michael

J. Golec and Vinegar (Minneapolis: University of

Minnesota Press, 2009), 163–94.

25. However, the crowd drawn in 1980 didn’t

exceed 40,000. In her superb study on the

Strada Novissima, Léa-Catherine Szacka

discusses the question of the degree to which

the exhibition itself or its impact on professional

28. See Stanislaus von Moos, Venturi, Rauch &

Scott Brown (Fribourg/Munich/New York: Office

du Livre / Schirmer Mosel / Rizzoli, 1987), 141–43.

The project was awarded the Leone d’Oro in

1985, the Biennale’s highest distinction.

29. See ibid., 144.

30. Neil Levine, „Robert Venturi and Denise

Scott Brown‘s Duck / Decorated Shed Dyad

in a Historical Perspective“, in Eyes That Saw.

Architecture After Las Vegas, ed. Stanislaus von

Moos and Martini Stierli (Zurich: Scheidegger &

Spiess, 2020), 267-289.

31. Learning from Las Vegas (1977 ed.), 128.

32. For a more detailed discussion of the

“organicism” of Venturi and Scott Brown’s

work see the notes on “Secret Physiology,”

in my Venturi, Scott Brown & Associates:

Buildings and Projects, 1986–1998 (New

York: The Monacelli Press, 1999), 34–45. My

observations on the “footprints” of architecture

and city growth owe much to conversations

with Denise Scott Brown who has since written

more extensively about the firm’s interest in

the dynamics of growth and interaction as

factors of formgiving; see notably “Activities as

36. In the 1950s and 1960s, systems theory

was most notoriously used as a key to urban

plan-ning by Konstantinos Doxiadis. See, in

this context, Mark Wigley, “Network Fever,”

Grey Room 4 (summer 2001), 82–122. On the

role of “systems theory” for the Venturis see

my Venturi, Scott Brown & Associates, 15 ff.;

and, with much more detail, Denise Scott

Brown, “Between Three Stools: a Personal

View of Urban Design Pedagogy,” in Urban

Concepts (London/ New York: Academy

Editions / St. Martin’s Press, 1990), 9–20. Note in

particular her discussion of her Forms, Forces

and Functions seminar and “Architecture as

Patterns and System: Learning from Planning,”

in Venturi and Scott Brown, Architecture as

Signs and Systems, 103–223. Doxiadis’s name

does not appear in Scott Brown’s writing.

37. Fumihiko Maki, Investigations in Collective

Form (St. Louis: Washington University School

of Architecture, 1964).

38. Marcel Brion and René Huyghe, Se perdre

dans Venise (Granvilliers: La tour verte, 2013,

originally published 1986), 19.

39. On the history of mapping the Lagoon and

[274] | AFTERWORDS

its impact on the conceptualizations of Venice’s

“forma urbis” see Plant, Venice, Fragile City,

392–93.

40. Eric Mumford, The CIAM Discourse on

Urbanism, 1928–1960 (Cambridge, MA: MIT

Press, 2000), 247–65.

41. Gabriele Scimeni, “La quarta scuola estiva

del CIAM a Venezia,” Casabella-continuità

(1956): 69–73.

42. Ibid. Interestingly, when referring to Louis

Kahn’s proverbial categorization of urban

traffic lines into “Go” Streets, “Stop” Streets,

“Docks,” etc., Denise Scott Brown will later

rename them “rivers,” “canals,” “harbors,” etc.

in “A Worm’s-Eye-View of Recent Architectural

History,” Having Words (London: A A

Publications, 2009, originally published 1984),

97–118, 104. For Kahn’s terminology see

“Toward a Plan for Midtown Philadelphia,”

Perspecta 2 (1953): 11–27.

43. As Maristella Casciato put it, in “Learning

from Italy (1954–66): Transatlantic Exchanges

and Encounters,” Yale School of Architecture,

unpublished manuscript (2010).

44. On the CIAM Summer Schools in Venice see

Maddalena Scimeni, “Venezia Inter nazionale.

La CIAM Summer School 1952–1957,” in

IUAV 83 (1983): 5–6. For Denise Scott Brown’s

own recollections on her Italian experience

in 1955/56 see her “Lavorando per Giuseppe

Vaccaro (Working for Giuseppe Vaccaro),” in

Edilizia Popolare 243 (1996): 5–12.

45. See Mary McLeod, “Wrestling with

Meaning in Architecture: Learning from Las

Vegas”, in Eyes That Saw, 67-92, esp. 71 and

Denise Scott Brown, “Las Vegas Learning, Las

Vegas Teaching”, ibid., 381-407, esp. 389.

46. David Crane, “Chandigarh Reconsidered,”

Journal of the American Institute of Architects

(1953): 32–9.

47. Manfredo Tafuri, Venezia e il Rinascimento.

Religione, Scienza, Architettura (Torino: Einaudi,

1985), xxi (author’s translation).

48. On the Teatro del Mondo see again Tafuri,

“L’ephémère est éternel: Aldo Rossi a Venezia,”

Domus, 602 (1980): 7–12. The best recent

summary of architectural undertakings and

exhibitions leading up to the Strada Novissima

is by Szacka, Exhibiting the Postmodern,

39–105.

49. In the presentation of his project shown

at the exhibition entitled “10 Immagini

per Venezia”, see ed. Francesco Dal Co, 10

Immagini per Venezia (Rome: Officina Edizioni,

1980), 138.’

50. Ibid, 22–27, 22.

51. Francesco Dal Co, “Dove Danzano Grilli

Mirabili. Venezia, Il Fondaco Dei Tedeschi,

OMA: Paradossi e Reinvenzioni,” Casabella

863–864 (2016): 26–37. See ibid., pp. 38–49 for

the project itself.

52. Colin Rowe, “The Mathematics of the Ideal

Villa,” The Architectural Review (1947): 101– 104;

reprinted in Rowe, The Mathematics of the Ideal

Villa and Other Essays (Cambridge, MA: MIT

Press, 1976), 1–28.

53. Except for the evidence of various formal

analogies, brilliantly exposed in Rowe’s essay,

there is no indication that Le Corbusier had a

specific notion of the Malcontenta when he

designed the Villa in Garches. And when he

visited the Malcontenta in 1934, it was arguably

less for the architecture than because he

hoped to get a commission from the woman

who inhabited the villa at that moment. See

Antonio Foscari, “À Venise en 1934,” in L’Italie

de Le Corbusier, ed. Marida Talamona (Paris:

Fondation Le Corbusier / Editions de la Villette,

2010), 200–09.

54. I am borrowing the term “flatbed facade”

from Allan Plattus, “The Flatbed Façades of

Venturi and Scott Brown: Cities and Civilizations

in a Very Narrow Space,” unpublished

manuscript (2010). On Vaccaro see Robert

Venturi, “La Chiesa Di Recoaro / the Church of

Recoaro,” Edilizia Popolare, 243 (1996): 22–25.

55. Venturi, Complexity and Contradiction, 94.

56. Among the later projects of the firm that

use the finestra termale, Gordon Wu Hall at

Princeton is even more “Venetian” (completed

1983; see von Moos, Venturi, Rauch & Scott

Brown, 202–07). Here the asymmetrical parti

arranged around the dominant feature of the

arched reading room window suggest the

irregularity of a Venetian cityscape “controlled”

by the thermal window of a church nave located

in its midst.

57. Le Corbusier, “A propos di Venezia,” quoted

from the Italian version of a transcript published

in the Giornale economico di Venezia, (Paris:

Fondation Le Corbusier, n. d.). Translation by

the author. See also Gazzetta di Venezia no. 27

(September 1952).

58. Sophie Calle and Jean Baudrillard, Suite

Vénitienne / Please Follow Me (Seattle: Bay

Press, 1988, originally published in 1983). Note

that, with mass tourism, the stairs can also

play the opposite role as ideal outlook posts for

crowd watching - while often contributing to the

“human traffic jams” typical of contemporary

Venice noted by Robert C. Davis and Garry

R. Marvin in Venice: The Tourist Maze, 73–5; 108.

59. Francesco Hayez’s variation on the theme

of Delacroix’s “The Execution of the Doge

Marino Faliero” probably being the best-known

example. For a classic introduction to the

political symbolism of architecture and public

space in Renaissance Italy see Wolfgang Lotz,

“Sixteenth-Century Italian Squares,” in Studies

in Italian Renaissance Architecture (Cambridge,

MA and London: MIT Press, 1977), 74–116 (for

the Piazza San Marco see in particular 83 ff.).

60. In connection with the stair that concludes

the long hall of the Humanities Building at

the State University of New York / Purchase,

in many ways a typological precedent to the

Sainsbury Wing stairwell, see von Moos,

Venturi, Rauch & Scott Brown, 165.

61. To give but two examples: Philip Johnson,

who claimed his Pennzoil Building in Houston

is a duck and his AT & T Building a decorated

shed (see Denise Scott Brown, “The Making

of an Eclectic,” in Having Words (London: AA

Publications, 2009), 95), and Peter Eisenman,

whom I have overheard as commenting on

student work in terms of ducks and decorated

sheds as late as 2014.


[275]

CONSTRUCTING THE SITE: TICINO AND

CRITICAL REGIONALISM, 1978–1987

Irina Davidovici

Occasionally, the architectural production

of a peripheral region comes

to the sudden attention of central

cultural networks. Distracted from

the contemplation of its inner workings,

the established discourse then

proceeds to explain this concomitant

emergence of several buildings of interest

as one overarching phenomenon.

Whether or not the projects are

the result of individual, un-coordinated

creative acts, they are amalgamated

and a common vision externally

projected upon them. Clustered in

professional publications and group

exhibitions, stalked by devotees,

probed by critics, the production of

the margin becomes an intellectual

commodity efficiently consumed by

the centre. This traffic provides cultural

capital for the previously marginal

protagonists, who acquire the professional

and academic recognition that

projects them beyond their immediate

area of activity. The more visible

and outwardly active, however, the

less are these actors able to replicate

the erstwhile regional ethos. Once

aligned with a centrist value-system,

they begin to propagate it.

Such a scenario played out in the

1960s and 1970s in the Ticino, the

Italian-speaking Swiss canton, where

a new generation of architects produced

a number of remarkable projects,

mostly private houses and

educational buildings. The nominal

centre’s ‘discovery’ of this architecture

began with the group exhibition

Tendenzen – Neuere Architektur im

Tessin, curated by German-Swiss

architect Martin Steinmann in 1975.

First mounted at ETH in Zurich, the

exhibition then travelled extensively,

projecting with surprising authority

this little-known regional production

throughout Europe and North

America. Over several editions, the

accompanying catalogue significantly

increased the information traffic, 1

while the coverage of the same buildings

in international publications

such as Architecture + Urbanism

(1976), L’architecture d’aujourd’hui

(1977) and Oppositions (1978) cemented

the external perception of the

Ticinese work as a collective oeuvre. 2

I have argued elsewhere that the international

appeal of this production

partly resided in its receptiveness

to extraneous theoretical readings,

which rendered it as a replicable formal

and methodological model that

is still perceptible in Swiss architecture.

3 This paper addresses a different

facet of the Ticinese Tendenzen,

namely its instrumental role in the

formulation of Kenneth Frampton’s

theoretical construct of Critical

Regionalism. While, thus packaged,

Ticino architecture gained access to

an elite critical discourse, it did so in

a schematic and partial manner.

The Ticinese production was defined

by its debt to postwar Italian theory,

namely the topics of realism, neo-rationalism,

and the ‘relative’ autonomy

of architecture. 4 For Frampton,

these notions represented alternatives

to the generic cartesian space of

late capitalism, promoted worldwide

through international modernism. 5

Through the definition of a sense

of place, architecture could defy the

undifferentiated march of global hegemonies.

One can understand what

attracted the British critic to Ticino’s

60s and 70s architecture, set up as an

ethically-motivated impulse against

the corporate, speculative, and culturally

anonymous suburban sprawl

decimating the Ticinese landscape.

Refreshingly, this production placed

building once again at the core of the

discipline. In contrast to the undifferentiated

technocratic architecture of

corporate modernism, it could be

promoted as a creative synthesis of

vernacular and avant-garde models,

forging clear connections to local

history and culture while claiming a

progressive outlook, unencumbered

by populist nostalgia.

If the Ticinese production shored

up Frampton’s critical regionalist

thesis, his own weighty profile

strengthened its international status.

Unintentionally, he thus contributed

to the construction of what

the German historian Frank Werner

called ‘the nebulous concept of the

Ticino School’. 6 Frampton’s input to

this myth-formation began in 1978

with the Oppositions article ‘Mario

Botta and the School of the Ticino’,

in which he developed a dialectical

reading between the collective

Ticinese context and Botta’s singular

artistic personality. Repeatedly, in

subsequent essays Frampton singled

Botta out as representative of a

critical regionalist attitude, a reading

that took liberties in two respects:

firstly, by conflating the neo-rationalist

roots of Ticinese architecture with

[276] | AFTERWORDS

the notion of Critical Regionalism,

and, secondly, by equating Botta’s

work with a nominally collective

production.

A heterogenous construct

Ticino’s cultural production reflects

a precarious balance between Italy,

its traditional next-of-kin, and the

Swiss Confederation as its economic

and administrative centre. In

parallel, its architectural narratives

juxtapose the local stone vernacular

with modernist imports from

Italy and Germany – a hybrid legacy

overshadowed, for the architects

active in the 1960s and 70s, by their

collective devotion to Le Corbusier.

Tita Carloni, a prominent mentor of

this younger generation, described

its outlook as ‘entirely shaped within

contemporary architecture, without

explicit connections to the origins of

modernism or a pre-industrial past’. 7

The search for a suitable modernist

vocabulary forged, in this narrow

professional setting, a generational

self-understanding exploring a

range of relationships with history.

The collective identity that arose

from the training of most protagonists

at ETH in Zurich, then nurtured

in the studios of local masters, such

as Tita Carloni, Peppo Brivio, Franco

Ponti and Rino Tami, led to numerous

architectural collaborations, some

more durable than others. Bruno

Reichlin and Fabio Reinhart, as well

as Aurelio Galfetti, Flora Ruchat and

Ivo Trümpy gained notoriety in early

partnerships before going separate

ways. Others, such as Luigi Snozzi,

Livio Vacchini, Mario Botta and again

Galfetti (after his partnership with

Ruchat and Trümpy ended) made

their name as sole practitioners,

while having collaborated on several

projects. 8 These fluid work alliances

were highly circumstantial, and

should not be confused with a sense

of professional collectivism.

The architects’ different agendas

and political allegiances were echoed

by their varied built production,

whose heterogeneity resisted coherent

readings as a group. At a formal

level, the production demonstrated

an affinity with cubic volumes, barefaced

concrete, abstracted vernacular

forms, and sensitive relations to

the topography. Moreover, even in

rural settings, the buildings’ ambition

of cultural recovery generated

a sense of fragmented urbanity. 9

Modernist, vernacular, even classical

sources were used in a polemic

Fig. 1. Kenneth Frampton’s seminal essay Towards a Critical Regionalism:

Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance was first published in the

book The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture edited by Hal

Foster, (Seattle: Bay Press, 1983)

and intellectualized fashion – not as

a way of smoothing the prismatic architecture

into its locale, but to highlight

its rootedness in a highbrow

cultural tradition.

Even though the leftist tendencies

of several architects explain their

declared interest in collective housing,

such projects were few, due to

Ticino’s historical and cultural penchant

for individualism. 10 The architectural

output largely depended

on a regional economy of private

| IRINA DAVIDOVICH

[277]

middle-income residences and historical

refurbishments, punctuated

by refurbishments. The opportunity

for this production to declare a social

ambition arose with the 1960s

educational reform, which funded

a large number of new educational

buildings in Ticino and effectively

launched the young architects’ careers.

The access to public commissions,

through a mix of competitions

and direct appointments by progressive

officials, remains to date largely

unexplored and would require an

intimate knowledge of the politically

intricate, often tribal Ticinese society.

This complexity led the international

audience of critics and historians

to focus on the graspable aspects of

the architecture – its formal characteristics

– and extract from them a

priori theoretical readings, detached

from its historical conditioning.

Frampton on Ticino

If Italian Neo-Rationalism provided

a theoretical input for Ticino architecture,

Critical Regionalism could

be seen as one of its most visible

outputs. Frampton first turned

his attention to Ticino in the 1978

Oppositions article ‘Mario Botta and

the School of the Ticino’, describing

the canton’s insularity as a ‘frontier-culture’

between Italy and the

rest of Switzerland. 11 Like previous

commentators (Martin Steinmann

and Bruno Reichlin, Bernard Huet),

he presented the architecture as

the built embodiment of Italian

Tendenza, defined by the cornerstones

of ‘relative’ architectural autonomy,

the cultural significance

of the city, and the use of history

as design resource. Similarly to

Steinmann, Frampton underestimated

the pluralism of Ticino architecture

to formulate a unified theoretical

construct. Moreover, by positing

the titular ‘School of the Ticino’ as a

demonstration of ‘the cultural survival

of the European city-state’, he

prepared the ground for its subsequent

placement in the Critical

Regionalist arena. 12

In a significant departure from the

local discourse, Frampton singled

out Mario Botta as playing a ‘central

and catalytic role’ in this production.

13 While acknowledging that

some of Botta’s most important urban

projects had been achieved in

collaboration with Luigi Snozzi and

Rudy Hunziker, Frampton elected

him as representative figurehead,

whose designs were both ‘unique’

and ‘typical’. The typical aspects

related implicitly to the common

background of Ticinese praxis, and

explicitly to the referential field of

Italian theory: the focus on history,

types, city and territory, and the disciplinary

definition of architecture as

a ‘problem of form’. 14 Factually, Botta

sat apart from his contemporaries,

most of whom had trained at ETH

Zurich, on account of his training at

the IUAV in Venice. He made much

of his training in Venice under Carlo

Scarpa and, later on, of his brief but

intense working experiences with

Le Corbusier and Louis Kahn. These

individual markers highlighted his

personal narrative as distinct from,

indeed ‘unique’, among the Ticinese

protagonists. Frampton reprised his

vision of a Botta-fronted regional

school in his 1980s essays on Critical

Regionalism. These could be seen to

fall into two categories: those where

Ticinese and other regional architectures

are subjected to full-fledged assessments,

as illustrations of Critical

Regionalism; and the ones in which

the theoretical framework takes over

and is expounded by points, with

nominal references to the regional

architects.

The first category reworked the

material initially included in the

Oppositions article, namely the

Perspecta article ‘Prospects for a

Critical Regionalism’ (1983) and a

new chapter in the second edition

of Modern Architecture, ‘Critical

Regionalism. Modern Architecture

and Cultural Identity’ (1985). 15 Both

texts astutely situated the Ticinese

production within the Swiss political

system, in the field of tension

between ‘the cantonal system [that]

serves to sustain local culture’ and

federal standards that enable ‘the

penetration and assimilation of foreign

ideas’. 16 Frampton thus conceived

of canton and federation as

dialectically opposed terms, mirroring

at a regional scale the conflict

between culture and civilization of

his Critical Regionalism construct.

Ticinese architecture was acclaimed

for ‘its capacity to condense the artistic

potential of the region while

reinterpreting cultural influences

coming from the outside’. 17 That

Frampton shored up his argument

with Botta’s work could be explained

through the latter’s design method,

described as ‘building the site’: formulation

that would have strongly

appealed to the critic. 18 Originally

inspired by Vittorio Gregotti’s Il

Territorio dell’architettura (1966), this

strategy of complementing landscape

formations with built forms

was capable of evoking the geological

(natural), as well as agricultural

(man-made), character of the region.

Frampton’s interest was validated

by Ticino’s dramatic topography,

which counteracted the ‘absolute

placelessness’ of technocratically

flattened ground. 19 Botta’s buildings

thus helped illustrate Frampton’s notion

of ‘bounded place-forms’, rooted

in the Heideggerian idea of boundary

as an experiential, rather than

actual, enclosure. 20 Botta’s projects

qualified as such through spatial

articulations that signalled different

conditions of topography, use and

land ownership. Frampton described

the houses as ‘bunker-belvederes’,

editing out undesired views of speculative

‘placeless’ suburbs and

framing more salient aspects of the

[278] | AFTERWORDS

landscape. Conversely, the city projects

in which Botta had collaborated

with Luigi Snozzi were articulated

as large urban figures, deploying

the imagery of specific types (gallerias,

viaducts) and materialising ‘an

indistinct urban boundary’ without

competing with the historical fabric.

However, the inner contradiction that

arose from the buildings’ anchorage

into the existing land- or cityscapes,

while creating strong topographical

figures in their own right, was not

highlighted. Their ambivalence as

both ‘bounded’ and ‘primary forms’

was subsumed under their capacity

to ‘harmonise’ with their location

through interpretations of local types

and ‘analogical’ forms and finishes. 21

In the second category, two polemical

texts, in 1983 and 1987, defined

Critical Regionalism as an ‘architecture

of resistance’: the earlier in six

points, the latter in ten. 22 Botta’s name

featured again at the forefront of the

Ticinese production, as in the formulation

‘the recent Ticinese school of

Mario Botta et al.’ 23 While, in the first

essay, Botta’s ‘building the site’ was

adduced as exemplary design strategy

into the section ‘Culture versus

nature’, 24 the latter one placed the

‘recent Ticinese school’ under a new

heading, ‘The Myth and the Reality

of the Region’. 25 Thus, besides his

regional identification with Botta,

Frampton’s acknowledged the ideas

of ‘school’ and ‘region’ as cultural

and institutional constructs, ‘necessary

myths, as any self-consciously

created culture must be’. 26 This deliberateness

points for the first time towards

an instrumentalization of the

ethical concept of resistance, which

in the first essay was a primarily political

proposition. Indeed, given the

production’s ultimate dependency

on capitalist development, in Botta’s

case the question of resistance was

reduced to an aesthetic editing out

of spoiled views.

The Ticinese production did not subscribe

equally to all points of Critical

Regionalism. To be sure, in its ‘recuperative,

self-conscious, critical

endeavor’, it proved highly adept at

adapting the historical forms of the

local vernacular and creating a current

dialogue with the past. 27 At the

same time, the architecture was nothing

if not visual. For this generation

enthralled by Le Corbusier, smooth

concrete became the default building

material, clearly distinguishable

from the pervasive vernacular

materiality of rough masonry and

render. Those projects using brick or

stone emphasised hard surfaces and

sharp contours, eliminating handicraft

traces and any sense of inherent

‘warmth’. Through its aversion

towards ‘nostalgic’ materials and

techniques, the Ticinese production

emphasised the visuality of architecture

and thus slid into the domain of

‘scenography’, denying other prerequisites

of Critical Regionalism, such

as tactility and tectonic coherence.

The leverage of the Archimedean

point

Frampton’s association of the

Ticinese production with the tension

between regional ‘culture’ and universalizing

‘civilization’ mirrors, at a

deeper level, the relation between local

conditions and external readings.

His use of the Ticinese production to

illustrate Critical Regionalism significantly

raised its profile worldwide, at

the cost of detaching it from the context

that had nurtured and shaped it.

By fusing the incompatible personal

approaches of Ticinese architects

into one theoretical construct, and

furthermore by subordinating their

collective significance under one

dominating personality, Frampton

might have overstepped into the domain

of operative criticism.

As a consequence of Frampton’s

ratification, Botta’s professional

‘currency’ increased considerably,

projecting him into the realm of international

stardom. Set apart from

his Ticinese colleagues, Botta withdrew

from the collective narrative

and, at the same time, from the common

conditions encountered by all

architects in the Ticino. Poignantly,

the catalogue of his personal retrospective

at MOMA in 1987 (the only

Ticinese to be thus celebrated) did

not mention his colleagues in the

Tendenzen exhibition twelve years

earlier, nor the common context of

their work. Instead, the introductory

essay by Stuart Wrede formulated

a heroic personal narrative that positioned

Botta directly in the global

modernist lineage of Le Corbusier,

Scarpa and Kahn. 28 Ticino, the actively

formative background to Botta’s

work, was demoted to a passive

topography for individual experimentation.

This trajectory, from the

collective to the individual and from

the specific to the general, openly

defied Frampton’s thesis of Critical

Regionalism. Jorge Otero-Pailos’s

observation that the construct was

too subtle to escape misappropriation

was confirmed: Botta belongs

to the critical regionalists who were

‘invited back from the repressed

margin into the centre of architectural

discourse, at the price of exacting

from them the language of the

centre’. 29 From Maastricht to Tokyo

and from San Francisco to Seoul, his

subsequent architecture became itself

an agent of ‘placelessness’.

Within Switzerland, there has been

hardly any response to the Critical

Regionalist interpretation. There

have been however more nuanced

and far less visible readings of

the work that emerged both within

Ticino – notably those of historian

Virgilio Gilardoni, architects

Tita Carloni and Paolo Fumagalli

– and in the rest of Switzerland –

Martin Tschanz, André Bideau, Nott

Caviezel and again Steinmann come

to mind. Published mostly in Italian

| IRINA DAVIDOVICH

[279]

and German, these interpretations

renounced tight theoretical frameworks

in favour of depicting a pluralist

scenery of diverging personalities

and agendas, loosely if fundamentally

connected by a collective conscience.

30 Protagonist Bruno Reichlin

critiqued in no uncertain terms the

local advantages of association with

internationally-circulated theories.

While ‘united in a mystical community

through the grace of genius loci’,

he argued, Ticinese architects were

forced to compete inside the limiting

context granted by this very grace. 31

In these circumstances, international

attention became local currency,

underlining the parochial attitude of

regional hierarchies:

As everyone knows, inside a regional

socio-economic basin, the battle

for survival imposes among the socalled

‘local’ architects a subtle game

of distinction, and hence the affiliation

to external tendencies, groups

and manifestos, cultural perfusions,

the umbilical cord with the place of

origin etc., meant to dazzle and turn

green with envy the provincial architect

next door. 32

Listing Critical Regionalism’s many

refutations and revisions is not the

aim of this paper. It is worth rehearsing,

however, Keith Eggener’s insistence

that as a top-down theoretical

reading, reinforced by authority figures,

Critical Regionalism is itself ‘a

postcolonialist concept’. 33 Eggener

argued that critical examinations of

regional identity should include an

analysis of their underlining political

and ideological agendas – work that,

in Botta’s case, is yet to be undertaken.

34 Furthermore, Alan Colquhoun

presented Critical Regionalism as

an anachronism. If local specificity

was once the preserve of autonomous,

closed-off cultural regions,

nowadays differences occur in unpredictable

fashion within current

formations of ‘large, uniform, highly

centralised cultural / political entities’.

35 Difference, Colquhoun contended,

has become a matter of individual

preference, ‘the result of the

choices of individual architects who

are operating from within multiple

codes’ and who are themselves ‘the

product of modern rationalization

and the division of labour’. 36

While this reading validates the nuanced

criticism of Ticino architecture

by local figures, they remain mostly

overlooked by the international

discourse. It was the programmatic

theoretical projections from

the outside that arguably had further-reaching

consequences. Botta’s

privileged position on Frampton’s

Critical Regionalist agenda helped

him accrue the political leverage he

later used to found the Accademia di

Architettura in Mendrisio, his home

town, in 1996. Between 1998 and

2001, at Botta’s invitation, Frampton

taught there. Twenty years after

coining the term the ‘School of the

Ticino’, his early pronouncement

had metamorphosed into self-fulfilling

prophecy.

* * *

Endnotes

1. Steinmann, Martin, and Thomas Boga.

Tendenzen: Neuere Architektur im Tessin

(Zürich: ETHZ, 1975). Subsequent editions in

1976, 1977 and 2010.

2. Toshio Nakamura, (ed.), A+U, 69 (1976),

23-145; Bernard Huet, ‘La ‘tendenza’,

ou l’architecture de la raison comme

architecture de tendance’, L’architecture

d’aujourd’hui 190 (1977), 47-70; Kenneth

Frampton, ‘Mario Botta and the School of the

Ticino’, Oppositions 14 (1978), 1-25.

3. Irina Davidovici, ‘The Autonomy of

Theory’, paper presented at Theory’s history

196X-199X Challenges in the historiography

of architectural knowledge, KU Leuwen, 9

February 2017.

4. Frampton, ‘Mario Botta and the School of

the Ticino’, 2.

5. Kenneth Frampton, Modern Architecture:

A Critical History (London and New York:

Thames & Hudson, 2007), 294.

6. Frank Werner, ‘Der nebülose Begriff der

‚Tessiner Schule‘’, in: Frank Werner and

Sabine Schneider (eds.), Neue Tessiner

Architektur: Perspektiven Einer Utopie

(Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1989),

9, 37.

7. Tita Carloni, ‘Tra conservazione e

innovazione’, in: Peter Disch (ed.), 50 Anni

di architettura in Ticino 1930-1980 (Lugano:

Grassico Pubblicità, 1983), 9.

8. These constellations produced some

notable projects, such as the competition

for the campus EPFL Lausanne- Dorigny by

Mario Botta, Tita Carloni, Aurelio Galfetti,

Flora Ruchat and Luigi Snozzi (1970), and

the Scoula Media in Losone by Vacchini and

Galfetti (1973).

9. See Martin Steinmann, ‘La Scuola ticinese

all’uscita da scuola,’ in: Nicola Navone (ed.),

Il bagno di Bellinzona di Aurelio Galfetti,

Flora Ruchat-Roncati, Ivo Trümpy, Mendrisio:

Mendrisio Academy Press, 2010), 35–44;

Paolo Fumagalli, ‘L’architettura degli anni

[280] | AFTERWORDS

Settanta nel Ticino’, Kunst + Architektur in

der Schweiz 45 (1995), 28-35.

10. For the cultural and political resistance

to collective housing in the Ticino, as well as

the 1970s architects’ efforts to overcome it,

see Fumagalli, Paolo. “Il Collettivo in Ticino.”

Archi : Rivista Svizzera Di Architettura,

Ingegneria e Urbanistica = Swiss Review

of Architecture, Engineering and Urban

Planning, no. 6 (2013): 65–71.


the Ticino’, 2-3.


the Ticino’, 3.


the Ticino’, 3.

14. Luigi Snozzi, ‘Design Motivation’, in: Boga

and Steinmann (eds.), Tendenzen – Neuere

Architektur im Tessin (Zurich: ETH Zurich,

1976), 164.

15. Kenneth Frampton, ‘Prospects for a

Critical Regionalism’, Perspecta 20 (1983),

174-162 and ‘Chapter 5. Critical Regionalism.

Modern Architecture and Cultural Identity’,

in: Modern Architecture. A Critical History

(London and New York: Thames and Hudson,

1985 [4th ed. 2007]), 314-327.

16. Frampton, ‘Prospects for a Critical

Regionalism’, 156.



18. Mario Botta, ‘Academic High School in

Morbio Inferiore. Intervention Criteria and

Design Objectives’, in: Boga and Steinmann

(eds.), Tendenzen – Neuere Architektur im

Tessin (Zurich: ETH Zurich, 1976), 160.

19. Frampton, ‘Towards a Critical

Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture

of Resistance’, in: Hal Foster (ed.) The Anti-

Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture

(New York: New Press, 1983), 26.

20. Frampton ‘Towards a Critical

Regionalism’, 25.




Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture

of Resistance’, in: Hal Foster (ed.) The

Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern

Culture (New York: New Press, 1983),

17–34; and ‘Ten Points on an Architecture of

Regionalism: A Provisional Polemic’, Centre

3, 1987, reprinted in: Vincent Canizaro (ed.),

Architectural Regionalism: Collected Writings

on Place, Identity, Modernity, and Tradition

(New York: Princeton Architectural Press,

2006), 375–85.

23. Frampton, ‘Ten Points’, 380.


Regionalism’, 26.




28. Stuart Wrede, Mario Botta (New York:

Museum of Modern Art, 1986).

29. Jorge Otero-Pailos, ‘Surplus Experience:

Kenneth Frampton and the Subterfuges of

Bourgeois Taste’, in: Architecture’s Historical

Turn: Phenomenology and the Rise of the

Postmodern (Minneapolis: University of

Minnesota Press, 2010), 248-249.

30. Virgilio Gilardoni, ‘Die Moral und die

Wirklichkeit. Ein Gespräch mit dem Historiker

Virgilio Gilardoni’, in: Dieter Bachmann

and Gerardo Zanetti (eds.), Architektur des

Aufbegehrens: Bauen im Tessin (Basel ;

Boston: Birkhäuser, 1985), 178-184; Paolo

Fumagalli, ‘L‘architettura degli anni Settanta

nel Ticino’, in: Kunst + Architektur in der

Schweiz = Art + architecture en Suisse =

Arte + architettura in Svizzera, 45 (1, 1995),

28-35; Tita Carloni, ‘Tra conservazione e

innovazione. Appunti sull’architettura nel

canton Ticino dal 1930 al 1980’, in: Peter

Disch (ed.), 50 Anni Di Architettura in

Ticino 1930-1980, Quaderno Della Rivista

Tecnica Della Svizzera Italiana (Lugano:

Grassico Pubblicità, 1983); Martin Tschanz,

‘Tendenzen und Konstruktionen: von

1968 bis heute’, in: Martin Tschanz, Anne

Meseure, and Wilfried Wang (eds.), Schweiz

(Munich: Prestel, 1998), 45–53; André Bideau,

‘Tessiner und andere Tendenzen’, in: Werk,

Bauen + Wohnen 84 (12, 1997), 22-36; Nott

Caviezel, ‘Switzerland since the 1970s: From

Ticino Tendenza to Pluralism’, in: Čeferin and

Cvetka Požar (eds.), Architectural Epicentres:

Inventing Architecture, Intervening in Reality

(Ljubljana: Arhitekturni Muzej, 2008), 90–103;

Steinmann, ‘La Scuola ticinese all’uscita da

scuola’, 2010.

31. Bruno Reichlin, ‘Quand Les Architectes

Modernes Construisent En Montagne’, in:

Histoire Des Alpes = Storia Delle Alpi =

Geschichte Der Alpen 16 (2011), 173–200.

32. Bruno Reichlin, ‘Quand Les Architectes

Modernes Construisent En Montagne’, 174.

33. Keith Eggener, ‘Placing Resistance: A

Critique of Critical Regionalism’ in: Journal of

Architectural Education 4 (2002), 234.

34. Eggener, ‘Placing Resistance’, 231.

35. Alan Colquhoun, ‘Regionalism 1 (1992)’,

in: Alan Colquhoun, Collected Essays in

Architectural Criticism, (London: Black Dog,

2009), 285.

36. Alan Colquhoun, ‘Regionalism 1 (1992)’,

284.

| IRINA DAVIDOVICH

[281]

SÖDRA STATION

Rasmus Wærn

Stadsdelen Södra station påstår

några saker: Att storslagna byggnader

hör till vår nedärvda bild av

staden. Att innerstaden skulle ha

något att lära sig av förorten. Att

det fanns det som var bättre förr,

det hade inget område av den storleken

sagt förr.

Det är över huvud taget en stadsdel

som påstår en massa. Vilket gjorde

att många blev upprörda över det

den hävdade.

Nu, mer än trettio år sedan det byggdes,

har det sagts så länge, att

man inte längre hör vad den säger.

Men medan andra kulturlager från

1980-talet som Grace Jones, videokassetten

och tevesåpan Dallas

sedan länge bäddats in av nya sediment,

står de flammande appellerna

i Bofills båge och husen däromkring

kvar som blekta slagord. Men

hur kunde detta över huvud taget

vara något att bli upprörd över?

Det var för alla förhoppningars

skull. Södra Station skulle bli stadens

renässans, det skulle bli den

nya arkitekturens manifest, humanismens

triumf över decenniers teknokrati.

När drömmen om staden

som visste allt visade sig vara just

en dröm, låg redan nya områden

på ritborden. Södra station sjönk

in i den vardag det egentligen var

byggt för och de stora orden blev

till sand.

Det här var staden som tog i. Vad

som tidigare varit högt, blev nu

högre. Se på själva stationshallen

skulle jag kunna säga, om inte just

den kom att få ett lock på sig härom

året. Men portikerna mellan bostadshusen

vittnar ännu om en sprudlande

självmedvetenhet hon arkitekterna.

Långa, raka promenader blev

rakare och längre än någonsin tidigare.

Klassicismen blev mer klassisk,

samtidigt som modernismen blev

nymodern.

Därför sprack ambitionerna att bygga

ett område lika enhetligt som

den gamla staden i bitar. Området

byggdes under nittonhundratalets,

ja hela den svenska arkitekturens

mest förvirrade tid någonsin. När allt

plötsligt var möjligt, byggdes också

allt möjligt. Områdets pappa, planarkitekten

Jan Inghe-Hagström på

Stockholms stadsbyggnadskontor,

dolde inte sin besvikelse:

En av de lärdomar jag har dragit av

detta, det är att det krävs verkligen

att någon tar på sig ett sådant här

samordningsansvar. Vi försökte utveckla

nya planinstrument som vi

kallade för kvalitetsprogram för att

tvinga arkitekterna och byggherrarna

att tidigt redovisa vad de ville göra

och sedan försöka samordna detta.

Men det behövs mycket kraftfullare

styrning tidigare i planprocessen

för att få ett bättre resultat än vad vi

stundtals har nått här på Södra station.

Och det där är ju intressant för

att det går precis på tvären mot vad

många av de politiska önskemålen

nu är, nämligen att man ska låta

marknaden, arkitekterna och byggherrarna

få ännu större frihet. Det

där tror jag inte ett dugg på. Precis

motsatsen är erfarenheterna vi har

dragit på Stadsbyggnadskontoret av

det här projektet.

Citatet kommer från filmen ”En

stadsdel föds” från 1995 där filmarna

Knut Ekström och Erik Strömdahl

under tio års tid följde några av de

människor som fick sin nya hembygd

i det gamla stationsområdet.

Samt Jan Inghe, som han allmän

kallades. Han höll i hela planprocessen

från början till slut. Projektet

Södra Station famnar hela åttiotalet.

Det började med att staden köpte

marken av SJ 1979 och det hela blev

i stort sett inflyttat när bågen stod

klar 1991. Tornet, Haglunds pinne,

tog några år till på sig men blev

också en sak för sig själv. Och först

nu blir hela Fatbursparken klar, efter

många års tjänstgöring som depå

för pendeltågstunneln.

När projektet började var Jan Inghe

inte mer än 35 år. Allt för ung, kom

han senare att tycka; för ung för att

agera med pondus mot de byggherrar

och arkitekter vars planer inte

brydde sig särskilt mycket om husen

på andra sidan gatan. Men också

för ung för att veta hur kvaliteten

skulle kunna pressas upp och genom

byggsystemens glastak. Det lärde

han sig med tiden, erfarenheterna

skulle han använda i planeringen av

Hammarby sjöstad.

En viktig del av Södra Stations historia

hittar man dock några kilometer

längre västerut. På Brommalandets

udde ut mot Ulfsundasjön hittar man

Minneberg. Det var Sveriges första

[282]

Fig. 1. XX

postmoderna bostadsområde, planerat

1980. Här stod husen för första

gången på länge ordnade så att mellanrummen

blev huvudsaken. För att

förstå Södra Station behöver man

förstå Minneberg. Och för att förstå

Minneberg behöver man förstå de

långa linjalernas natt, den tid då allt

av värde kunde uttryckas i siffror –

den svenska efterkrigstidens tilltro

till det mätbara.

Minneberg var Jan Inghes första

egna uppgift som stadsplanerare.

Tidigare planer för området hade

räknat med att bergknallarna skulle

sprängas bort och husen radas upp.

Han lyckades vända allt detta så

att berget bestod och husen byggdes

efter människors och inte efter

kranbanors behov men att det fortfarande

var betongelementen som

styrde estetiken gick inte att ändra

på. Det hela blev en slags teater, en

uppsättning av pjäsen ”Den europeiska

staden” med kulisser och allt.

Idag är det lätt att se bristerna, men

pjäsen blev en stor framgång och

Inghe fick ta sig an stadens största

uppgift sedan miljonprogrammets

dagar. I Minneberg ritades alla hus

av en och samma arkitekt och byggdes

av en och samma byggare.

Här skulle nu tjugo olika arkitekter

och byggherrar komma att samsas.

Direkt efter programutredningen

drog den första av flera arkitekttävlingar

för Södra station igång, en

idétävling som skulle vaska fram

grundanslaget.

I tävlingen flöt alla samtidens idéer

om staden upp. Eller, egentligen var

de bara två: Å ena sidan en ny kärlek

till den gamla staden gator, å andra

sidan väl omhändertagna hus och

doften av linolja. Den falangen fick

sitt kanske mest extrema uttryck i

Léon Kriers tävlingsförslag ”Not the

tavlingsomrade” som gick ut på att

spara Södra Station som en öppen

park och bygga om hela Södermalm

till ett knippe Gamla-Stan-stora enklaver

med trånga gränder. En slags

revansch på Le Corbusiers förslag att

ersätta hela Söder med ett enda hus

för 110 000 människor.

Den andra idén satte mer faktiska

spår. Det var HSB som lanserade sin

vision om ett ”Söders Manhattan”

med eldunderstöd av författaren

Bernt Rosengren. Kontrasten mellan

Rosengrens romantiskt-nostalgiska

Söderskildringar och HSBs bom-

[283]

Fig. 1. XX

bastiska vision som såg ut som ett

Hötorgscity på stereoider kunde inte

vara större. Men Rosengren vision

om att ladda Stockholm med så mycket

människor som möjligt hade tiden

för sig och höghusfrågan blev en

het potatis som Jan Inghe sköt framför

sig ända tills det till slut blev dags

för Tornet. Jag återkommer till det.

Om Krier och Rosengren satte ideologiska

spår, fanns det andra i debatten

vars idéer fick mer praktiskt

genomslag. Framför allt Mischa

Borowski, en polskfödd arkitekt som

kom till Sverige som nittonåring tillsammans

med sin mamma. De satte

båda stora spår i debatten, modern

Maria med sitt engagemang för ett

fritt Polen och sonen med det stadsbyggnadsengagemang

han ärvt från

fadern. Han blev sedermera stadsarkitekt

i Warszawa, men under åttiotalet

ägnade han sin energi åt Södra

Station. Först som debattör, sedan

som arkitekt. Han drev linjen att

stationen måste däckas över, något

som staden först inte tänkt sig, det

skulle bli för dyrt. Men med Gunnar

Strängs pendeltågsavtal ordnade sig

den saken, och Borowski fick rita själva

stationshuset.

Åttiotalet bjöd på ett nytt debattklimat.

Internationellt, efter en lång

tid av självvalt navelskådande. Jan

Inghe bjöd in brett till tävlingarna

och dagspressen gav arkitekturdebatten

stora (de var större då) helsidor.

Debatten följde planeringen

som rörde sig från väster till öster.

Stadsbyggnadskontorets vision att

bygga en stad där ena sidan vette

mot en smal gata och den andra mot

bilfria stråk var ett arv från förortsplaneringen

man inte ville göra sig

av med. Oron för att bli påkörd var

konkret, då omkring tusen personer

dog i trafiken varje år mot ett par

hundra idag.

Södra Stations trafikseparering var

en källa till vrede för kritiker utifrån,

men uppskattat av de boende.

En av de som fostrat en familj i

dessa kvarter heter Per Kraft. ”

”Trafiksepareringen har varit av

godo för oss, vår gata är lugn och

barnen har kunnat röra sig tryggt i

närområdet när de var små” berättar

Per idag. ”Men samtidigt isolerar

den området och gör det till en enklav

som på sätt och vis parasiterar

på omgivande stad och parker”.

Jan Inghe själv var inte särskilt nöjd.

I ett PM från 2004 rannsakar han sig

själv: Misslyckat eller inte därom må

vi tycka. Men med uppenbara brister

ändå.

Exploateringen är ställvis alltför hög

Snarare enklav än stad, dåliga

samband

Parkytorna är för små och hårt slitna

Arkitekturen är för lite samordnad

och ställvis för dålig

Det byggnadstekniska utförandet på

hus och stadens markanläggningar

är för dåligt

Den underjordiska stationsmiljön är

undermålig

Det är bara att hålla med. Om Södra

Station skulle byggts något rymligare,

mer integrerat med gamla Söder,

med väl omhändertagna parker av

olika sorter, med en mer samlad och

mer omsorgsfullt gestaltad bebyggelse

och en station i klass med de

[284]

grandiosa, hade vi börjat närma oss

en stad i dess fulla betydelse. Men

ändå. Helt fel blev det ju inte.

Det mest intressanta, mest genomritade

och mest välbyggda huset är

utan tvekan Bofills båge och dess

annex, ”templen” och ”kuberna”.

Få hus har namn, och de som bär

sin arkitekts namn är riktigt sällsynta:

Eiffeltornet; Aaltobiblioteket;

Garnieroperan; Martin-Gropius-Bau;

Semperoper.

Och Bofills båge. Själva bågformen

kom dock före Bofill, även om han

hade spänt flera stora bågar tidigare:

i Montpellier, Saint-Quentin-en-

Yvelines och Marne La Vallée, där

hans ”Abraxas” från 1982 snabbt

blev en ikon för futuristisk klassicism.

Bofill ville rita palats för folket. Det

var kraftfulla gester med överdrivna

former. Ifall palatsens status kunde

mätas i kolonnernas bredd, blev

rejäla kolonner en demokratifråga.

Att en sådan ideologi stod i konflikt

med svensk måttfullhet konstaterade

Aftonbladets kritiker Bosse Bergman

redan fem år (13/7 1980) innan Bofill

blev inbjuden till att tävla på Södra

station.

Postmodernismen var ett uppbrott

från Bauhausskolans rationella estetik,

men modernismens kris bottnade

i en kritik mot hela idén om ett

rationellt tänkande. Att vara modernist

var att tro på att varje fråga hade

ett svar som var bättre än alla andra

tänkbara svar. Att vara postmodernist

var att acceptera olika svar. En

sådan behövde inte acceptera andras

argument, men kunde heller

inte hävda sitt svar framför någon

annans. När vetande började betraktas

som uppfattningar uppstod en

explosiv blandning. Det hände på

Södra station.

Med valet av Bofill kulminerade den

svenska debatten om postmodernismen.

Att flirta med historien var

okej, men att beundra den hängivet

var en annan femma. Styrkan i den

jordbävning som arkitekturen orsakade

bevisas av att det mest rasande

angreppet kom från Göteborg.

Elias Cornell, tidigare professor i

arkitekturens teori och historia samt

vänsterradikal kritiker av rivningsraseriet,

larmade nu om den spanske

arkitektens katastrofala förslag.

Bofill var en charlatan! Det tog, menade

Cornell, mer än en mansålder

att skaffa sig helt och fullt självförtroende

på nytt efter att Stüler, en

utlänning, ritat Nationalmuseum.

När man nu för första gången sedan

dess på nytt släppte in en utländsk

arkitekt skulle förödelsen upprepas:

”Bofills orimliga förslag [var] ett

vidunder av billigt attitydmakeri.

[…] Ett gigantiskt requiem över en

stendöd borgerlighet” som skulle

”kasta arkitekturen tillbaks till 1850.

[…] Omoget, dödfött, utan mänsklig

omtanke, utan allvarlig konstnärlig

genomarbetning ska påkostade men

värdelösa dekorationer pösa fram

över fasaderna, i entréerna och kanske

till och med i rummen” skrev

Cornell i GP den 18/8 1985.

Håkan Brunnberg som satt i den jury

som valde Bofill framför förslagen

från Bengt Lindroos samt Gunnar

Malm på HSBs arkitektkontor svarade

med att arkitekturen höll för all

saklig granskning och att hela den

svenska arkitekturen skulle vinna på

de lektioner i avancerat elementbyggeri

som Bofill erbjöd. Men Björn

Linn, som efterträtt Cornell på professorsstolen

i Göteborg, lät sig inte

övertygas utan såg den monumentala

gesten som ett alibi för en sekunda

arkitektur.

Inte heller i Stockholm stod Bofill

högt i kurs. Den kraftigaste salvan

laddade Skönhetsrådet, där Klas

Tham som arkitekternas representant

förklarade att den stora bågen var

oacceptabel och att den gestaltningen

enbart en kulissarkitektur vars

förebild användes för att förhärliga

det franska enväldet. ”En stadsbyggnadskonst

som djupast sett uttrycker

ett ointresse för människan.”

Det kom att dröja femton år innan

nästa debatt som kom i närheten

av dessa brösttoner. Också då var

det HSB som drog ihop veden till

brasan. Men debatten om Turning

Torso drevs ändå inte av samma ideologiska

energi som debatten kring

Bofills båge. Tornet skälldes ut som

onödigt, orimligt och oekonomiskt.

Bågen drabbade de sociologiska

stadsbyggnadsprinciperna på ett

djupare plan. Att en övergripande

form, och därtill av en så främmande

sort, skulle gälla framför det svenska

bostadsbyggandets gedigna erfarenheter

provocerade hela den svenska

projekteringsmodellen. Klassicismen

som sådan retade egentligen bara

Cornell; kvaliteterna i det svenska

tjugotalets nyklassicism var de flesta

ense om, Linn såg dess metodik till

och med som oöverträffad i sin professionalism.

Men att arkitekturens

kompromisslöshet, något man idag

ser som självklarhet, skulle vara en

kvalitet skar sig mot idén om bostadens

mjuka värden. Det var inte

miljonprogrammets formalism som

bågen bröt emot – den dörren var sedan

länge inslagen – utan mot dess

alternativ, det intima grannskapstänkandet

såsom det speglades i

till exempel Bo85, bostadsmässan i

Upplands Väsby(s xx).

Historien om Bofills båge börjar i det

tidiga åttiotalets idétävling. Staden

satte samman en områdesplan där

flera av tävlingsresultaten fanns med:

Johansson och Linnman (Joliark),

då på Ahlséngruppen, fångade upp

Borowskis idé om en lång, övertäckt

pendeltågsstation; den tog man med.

Bengt Lindroos föreslog en väldig

byggnad mellan Medborgarplatsen

och Fatbursparken – den överlevde

inte, men väl grundtanken att

[285]

gränssnittet krävde särskild omsorg.

Scenografen Sören Brunes lanserade

en idé om staden som en väldig

scen med runda och krökta byggnader

– där någonstans föddes tanken

på bågen. Det var egentligen bara

det mest uppmärksammade förslaget

– HSBs Söders Manhattan – som

nogsamt sopades åt sidan, även om

det till slut ändå blev ett torn.

Två av de kontor som premierats i

tävlingen, CAN arkitekter och VBB

arkitekter, fick i uppdrag att utveckla

iden om ett bågformat hus och

med stöd i dessa studier fick HSB

en markanvisning. De hade lärt

sig av kritiken mot höghusstaden,

och förstod också de speciella möjligheterna

med denna plats. Därför

bjöd de in till en tävling mellan tre

kontor: HSBs egna arkitektkontor

med Gunnar Malm i spetsen, Bengt

Lindroos samt Ricardo Bofill från

Barcelona.

På Södra station förenades Bågen

och Tornet. Två klassiska stadsbyggnadselement

som skulle förstås tillsammans.

Idén med ett högt hus vid

Medborgarplatsen växte fram samtidigt

med bågen, de två skulle förhålla

sig till varandra. Samtidigt med den

inbjudna tävlingen om bågen hölls

en öppen tävling om tornet. Den

samlade 90 bidrag, men de flesta landade

i en trivialt glasad Dallasskrapa.

Bofill var också med. Han föreslog

en mycket hög och slank kampanil.

Med 50 våningars höjd och proportionerna

1:7 skulle den visserligen

stå vackert mot bågen, men stadsbyggnadskontoret

värjde sig mot dess

verkan i stadsbilden. Men borgarrådet

Sune Haglund blir förtjust, och

även om ingen vinnare utsågs, bjöds

fem arkitekter, bland andra Henning

Larsen, in till en ny tävling om tornet.

Signalerna var motsägelsefulla.

Fastighetsdirektören ville att arkitekterna

skulle strunta i alla höjdbegränsningar

och sikt högt, medan stadsbyggnadsborgarrådet

helst ville se

en måttlig vertikal markör som bara

höjde sig något lite över omgivningen.

Larsen vann tävlingen, men de

dramatiska kasten hans hus fick utstå

gjorde att han till slut avsade sig

allt samröre med ”Haglunds pinne”.

Bofills båge introducerade visserligen

ett nytt kvalitetstänkande i

svensk betongproduktion, liksom

Nationalmuseum 140 år tidigare för

ett ögonblick förde tillbaka naturstenen

i svensk arkitektur. Men trots

kvaliteterna fick inga av dessa båda

byggnader, som båda strävade

efter att lyfta den svenska arkitekturen

genom att ta in internationella

kompetenser, några efterföljare.

Nationalmuseum var före sin tid

med en industrialiserad stenproduktion,

och Bofills betongelement

allt för avancerade för att tåla totalentreprenadernas

prispress.

Kraven på såväl betong som ballast

gjorde att man köpte den första från

Danmark och den andra från Kiruna.

Gjutformarna svetsades samman i

Frankrike, och elementen doppades

i saltsyra efter en metod som Bofill

introducerat och Ohlsson & Skarne

sedan utvecklade. Resultatet blev en

sandstensliknande yta.

Byggnadsprincipen skiljer sig från

vanliga betongelementfasader, eftersom

de vertikala skarvarna täcks

av pilastrar i samma gula ton som

fasaden i sin helhet. Tekniskt har de

fungerat väl. Doppningen i saltsyra

var en slags patinering som tog bort

gjuthuden och blottade en yta som

enbart bestod av ballast. Det är en

process som naturen förr eller senare

ändå skulle åstadkommit, men

ytan är svår att imitera om den behöver

repareras.

Bågen var utan tvekan det mest

genomarbetade, mest uttrycksfulla

och mest stadsrumsskapande bostadshuset

i hela Södra stationsprojektet.

Det säger i och för sig lika mycket

om områdets arkitektur i stort,

som om huset som sådant. Försöken

att få Bofill att knäppa upp den strama

kostymen en smula lyckades

inte. Helst skulle han velat ha parken

framför lika fundamentalistisk som

arkitekturen. Nu blev landskapet som

White ritade där Fatburssjön tidigare

låg snarare en välgörande kontrast

till fasadernas militanta rytm: Bombom-bang,

bom-bom-bang.

Att fönstersättningen på bågens insida

fick underordna sig fasaden

hindrade dock inte att lägenheterna

blev bra. Fasadrytmen bidrog snarast

till deras speciella karaktär. Att

de blev möblerbara var den svenska

produktionsarkitekten Gerhard

Herkommers förtjänst. Att det blev

ljusa berodde framför allt på husets

ringa djup, 11,4 meter. Det var enkla

material i Bågen och dess syskon

Templen och Kuberna, men ytorna

var generösa. Tvåorna var på mellan

63,5 och 83,5 kvadratmeter och de

gemensamma ytorna, såväl i trapphus

som gemensamhetslokaler,

slående stora jämfört med dagens

produktion.

Att huset inte fick några efterföljare

berodde framför allt på att nyklassicismen

anspråk på att leverera

svar som skulle vara giltiga alltid

och överallt misstänkliggjordes. Här

levererades en lika kategorisk postmodernism

som den mest rigida

modernismen en gång var. Även om

de mest banala anklagelserna om

en ”Mussolini-stil” (stadsdelsnämndens

ord) aldrig fick betydelse fanns

det ett totalitärt anslag i den absoluta

formen som störde till och med en

postmodern banérförare som den

amerikanske arkitekten Robert Stern.

Bofills djupa plastik hade visserligen

plattats ut till en mycket tunn relief

med så lite som 30 millimeters djup

mellan vissa delar, men de räckte för

att vittna om arkitekturens anspråk

på sanningen. Det rimmade illa med

den pluralistiska ornamentik som

började ta sina första stapplande

[286]

steg 1992, samtidigt som huset

stod klart. Det var nu Herzog & de

Meurons lager för Ricola med fasader

av stora fotografier på glas stod

klar och det var nu de första små tatueringarna

började dyka upp ovanför

t-shirtens ärm; gärna en tribal

från filmen ”Krigarens själ”.

I grund och botten handlade Södra

Station inte om arkitektur; i alla fall

inte så som man ser den idag, att

presentera aldrig tidigare sedda

former. För Bofill var det raka motsatsen,

kunde hans hus sjunka in

i vilken ny-nyantik epok som helst

skulle ingen varit gladare än han.

Många av de andra husen önskade

kanske detsamma, men förmådde

inte ens försöka. Södra Station

ville åt våra mer existentiella behov.

Platser som skapade särskilda erfarenheter.

Palats åt minnena snarare

än åt folket, som Bofill lite översåtligt

resonerade.

Minnen kan fastna vid alla platser.

Förmodligen fäster de lika bra

på betong som på tegel. Det viktigaste

är att de har något speciellt.

Förväxlingsbara miljöer är teflon för

hemkänslan. Södra Station nådde

inte hela vägen fram på alla ställen.

Men det finns något älskvärt i dess

försök. Det här är inget åttiotal som

sviker. Med axelvaddar av stål står

det stolt när vinden tar fart utmed

Bangårdsgången.

Rasmus Wærn

Texten har tidigare publicerats i:

Hallemar, Dan (red.) (2020). Tio

byggnader som definierade 1980-talet.

Stockholm: Arkitektur Förlag

Fig. 3–4, XX

[287]

[290]

STUDIO RE/03

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