perfect gift for art lovers
shlemazeltov
Global Ambition, Local Flavor: Hallmarks of the New Modernism
by Clay Risen
The Phaidon Atlas of Contemporary World Architecture. Phaidon Press,
824 pages, $160.
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The joke about Phaidon's new Atlas of Contemporary World Architecture
is that, at 809 pages and 16 pounds, it's less a coffee-table book
than a coffee table. But every ounce is justified, as Phaidon's
editors have assembled a beautiful, thorough overview of more than
1,000 buildings that went up around the world between 1998 and 2003.
Though they might have a hard time making it fit, serious architecture
fans should be required to make space for the Atlas on their
bookshelves.
Organized geographically—by region, country and continent,
cross-listed by architect—the book will surely give the lie to anyone
who thinks there's nothing happening in the world of architecture
outside of Frank Gehry, Rem Koolhaas and Zaha Hadid. Alongside the
"starchitects," we discover a surprising number of works by obscure
architects hired by all kinds of clients: a $3,000 tree house in
Ethiopia; a psychologist's office in Jordan; a $20,000 cabin in New
South Wales, Australia. The front of the book includes lengthy charts
on population and urbanization trends for each country featured. The
range of styles and locations—indeed, the sheer amount of
information—can be overwhelming at times. But for all its encyclopedic
tendencies, the book is a subtle yet cogent argument about the
direction of world architecture: Today's modernism is global in reach
yet local in perspective, conforming to its surrounding aesthetics yet
expressing a universal order.
During modernism's first heyday around the middle of the 20th century,
speaking of "world architecture" in any substantive sense was a
close-to-impossible task. To be sure, architecture existed outside of
Eurocentric modernism, but few people took notice, let alone attempted
to incorporate it into their work. There were some, like Louis Kahn in
Dacca, Bangladesh, or Le Corbusier in Chandigarh, India, who took
seriously the idea of melding modernist ideas and local aesthetics
when designing public structures (though even Le Corbusier failed at
that in his city plan for Chandigarh, the new capital of Punjab
province, as he imposed a garden-city-inspired grid onto the Indian
landscape).
Modernist architecture fell into disfavor during the 1970's and
1980's, as critics and practitioners—like the rest of the intellectual
world—called into question "Eurocentric" notions of progress and
order. But their solution, postmodern pastiche—which often meant
little more than whimsical incorporation of traditional design
elements or corporate kitsch—failed to present a compelling
alternative, and by the 1990's modernism was on the upswing again,
though this time more sensitive to the varieties of cultural
experience, and to the need for human scale to balance out the urge
toward an eminently rational but at times overbearing universal
aesthetic. Such an urge was facilitated by the explosion in global
communications, which suddenly made it possible for people around the
world to inspect urban and architectural contexts halfway around the
world.
The Atlas, then, is a virtual tour of how several hundred architects
have approached the question of creating human-scale modernism, one
that calls on both universal ideas and local aesthetics. Toward the
front of the book, we're treated to a stunning two-page spread on
Renzo Piano's Jean-Marie Tjibaou Cultural Center in Nouméa, New
Caledonia. Dedicated to a slain independence leader, the center is
marked by a row of semi-circular wooden structures—the tallest of
which is as high as a nine-story building. (In an ironic twist perhaps
meant to underscore the building's nexus between the local and the
global, the structures' ribs are made of laminated iroko wood brought
from West Africa.) Meant to evoke a local village, the structures both
define the center and help ameliorate the inevitable tension between a
modernist structure and its surroundings, especially when those
surroundings are lush, green jungle.
The notion that modernism is anything but a unified whole—or that
modernists in different parts of the world will interpret its elements
differently—is hardly a new idea. William Curtis, in his magisterial
Modern Architecture Since 1900 (1985), highlights the various ways in
which regional architects put their own spin on a Western European
idea. And yet, with few exceptions, that dialogue was largely limited
to Europe, the United States, and occasionally Japan and Latin
America. With mid-century modernism, it wasn't unusual to find
top-flight European architects working around the world, but it was
rare to find smaller shops doing the same.
Today, as the Atlas makes clear, things have changed. One of the most
interesting works in the Atlas is a gateway sculpture built by the
Australian firm Denton Corker Marshall for Nanning, a city in
southeast China. Lining the main entrance into town are two giant red
steel flowers—except that one side only appears whole from a distance;
as a driver approaches, the flower reveals itself to be 10 individual
petals spread along the road. It's a wonderful instance of technically
savvy design used to express local aesthetics.
A similar marriage of modernism and traditionalism can be seen in the
work of local architects in developing countries. Raj Rewal's
Parliamentary Library in New Delhi, for example, incorporates a
modernist sense of order with traditional Indian structural elements,
such as large open areas inside the buildings and detailing that
evokes Mughal-era palaces. Mr. Rewal's work isn't limited to India,
either; the editors make a point of featuring his Ismaili Centre in
Lisbon—proof that, increasingly, the global current of architecture
flows both ways.
Many of the European and American projects also display a refreshing
sensitivity to their regional and immediate surroundings that will
surprise those who think that modern architecture draws its strength
from clashing with its context. Steven Holl's Y House in the
Catskills, for example, deftly incorporates a wood-frame vernacular,
complete with red cedar slats, into a well-ordered yet creative
private home. Similarly, Caruso St. John's New Art Gallery, in
Walsall, England, is a gray, boxy structure inserted neatly into
shabby industrial surroundings—but instead of being brought down by
its resemblance to the warehouses and abandoned factories around it,
the gallery enlivens them by showing the possibility for renewal. And
these are just a handful of the hundreds of works highlighted in the
Atlas.
The Atlas, of course, runs the risk of providing too much information.
It's one thing to showcase 1,000 buildings; it's another to hit
readers with 2,000 line drawings and some 5,500 photos—many of which,
though pretty enough, are redundant when it comes to explicating the
building. At the same time, it would have helped to have more critical
discussion of the buildings: what the architect was hoping to achieve,
what the public reaction has been, how well they work within their
contexts. But this is a minor quibble from a text-centric critic; the
evidence is there for anyone to see. Making a visual rather than a
textual argument is a difficult task, and though well-suited to
architecture, it's rarely attempted. That Phaidon has managed to do so
while keeping the Atlas light (at 16 pounds) and engaging is a
stunning achievement.
Clay Risen, an assistant editor at The New Republic, writes frequently
about architecture.