Villa Spies: This Changes Everything

This changes everything: a short film sequence from the 1967 unfunny James Bond parody Casino Royale changes everything I thought I knew about the Villa Spies (also known as Villa Fjolle), the futuristic, white, domed villa of Danish travel business genius Simon Spies at Torö, just outside Sweden’s capital city Stockholm:

In the very last minutes of the long (much too long) film, Woody Allen in the role of Dr. Noah, James Bond’s evil nemesis, and his (Dr. Noah’s) attractive female hostage step inside a peculiar domed space which in many ways resembles the interior of Villa Spies, because suddenly, without warning, a circular section of the floor is lifted up towards the ceiling, with Woody Allen, standing on the platform, making his big nemesis speech as he is lifted higher and higher, and closer and closer to the apex of the shallow white dome. Simultaneously appears, from below the soaring platform, a small men’s singing group in dashingly blue tuxedos, surreally accompanying Dr. Noah’s speech with song. After the speech is finished, the round platform (and the singing group) is lowered into the floor again.

The scene only lasts for a minute, but it changes everything all the same. Because it all fits: the timeline (the movie came out in 1967, the villa was finished in 1969), the looks (white dome, white furniture), and—not least—the gadgets (a movable platform, for goodness’ sake!). This movie set simply must have been a direct inspiration for the architect and his team, consciously or unconsciously, when designing the remarkable Villa Spies/Villa Fjolle. Yet, the Casino Royale (1967) movie set was never mentioned by architect Staffan Berglund when I interviewed him 1995 for my essay Pleasure Dome, which later would become the backbone of the illustrated architectural monograph, published in 1996.

But, more importantly: nor was this movie set mentioned by architect Per Reuterswärd when, in 1998, he accused Staffan Berglund of not paying tribute to, or giving credit to everyone involved in the villa’s design. Per Reuterswärd, for one, claimed to have been instrumental in shaping the villa. Staffan Berglund responded to this claim by confirming that Reuterswärd was indeed hired as a consultant at one point (Arkitekttidningen, Stockholm, no. 12-1998).

However, methinks Reuterswärd et al. should squabble less between themselves, and instead generously invite some new members into their group; members until now completely unknown to us outsiders, namely the art directors of the 1967 James Bond parody. But, just as there were many—too many—directors involved in the filming, there is a confusing number of art directors and designers listed in the film’s credits. So I invite anyone who reads this to enlighten me, and to enlighten us all: who designed this particular set? Please write to me. And, who knows, perhaps it was Simon Spies who went to the movies one night and was inspired by what he saw on the silver screen. Perhaps the inspiration from the film came via Simon Spies himself? Does anyone who reads this know? Please write to me if you do!

This my very recent discovery (just weeks ago, in early 2008) does not in any way mean that everything that architect Staffan Berglund told me (in 1995) about the villa’s early history necessarily must be untrue. The way I see it, this discovery of an (until now) unknown pop culture reference merely shines new light on a process (the process of designing a house), which is always complex, and could never be reduced to simple causality and chronology where everything that influences the final design (and everyone) can be accounted for. In fact, my recent discovery only makes the villa’s history and conception richer and more interesting to me.

And, as of today, for the first time ever, read the entire essay from the 1996 book about Villa Spies/Villa Fjolle on the web (plus extra material that was never in the book), here: Pleasure Dome

The Big Cover-Up: Sergels torg

(Cont.)

On the future of Sergels torg: if I have argued earlier for restoring and strengthening architectural stature (in the particular cases of certain messed-up and mistreated architectural masterworks) through the cleaning up and removal of clutter and removal of all kinds of added-on stuff, i.e. through reduction, when it comes to outdoor public spaces where city dwellers lead their normal lives (streets, alleys, squares and outdoor markets), I argue for the opposite: I argue for the intentional weakening of the suffocating hold or grip on the street scape of any personal/artistic/idealist/political “architectural vision,” even when that particular architectural vision must be considered “beautiful” as architecture goes, and pleasing to a city planner’s inner eye; even when considered architecturally significant, as in the case of Stockholm’s downtown pedestrian nightmare in and around Sergels torg.

The inner city neighborhoods we all prefer to live in, and shop in, and have a good time in, are all characterized by their architectural insignificance (!), their non-architecture status.

Illustrations above: (1) rendering by Mikael Askergren (1985), showing how Sergels torg, the sunken pedestrian plaza at the heart of Stockholm’s modernist downtown, could be lifted to the level of street traffic without compromising the architecture of Kulturhuset. (2) Postcard view of Sergels torg (1980s), showing Kulturhuset (the Stockholm municipal cultural center, architect: Peter Celsing), the super ellipse fountain/traffic roundabout, and the sunken pedestrian plaza. (3) Newspaper clipping from Svenska Dagbladet, 3 January 2008, reporting the city government’s plans for allowing shop owners in and around Sergels torg to take over the entire system of pedestrian underground tunnels, turning them into one big indoor shopping mall—plans which, however, do not include lifting the sunken plaza to street level.

So when it comes to Sergels torg I say: Put a lid on it! Cover up its big whole-in-the-ground. Give up the public underground walkways, which have more to do with the visions of the city planners of a certain era (separating cars from pedestrians at any cost, even at the expense of urbanity), and less with what actually works for people as public, urban spaces. Yes, I say, go ahead with the new privatization policy: leave the underground tunnels to shop owners to do what they will with them, but make optimal use of the commercial market forces that are now more than willing to make great financial investments in changing the underground of Sergels torg. make use of those market forces to also, while they’re at it, finance a “cover-up” of the entire sunken plaza:

Go ahead, turn the unpleasant underground outdoor shopping experience into a heated indoor shopping mall, which protects shoppers from the elements during business hours, and closes its doors after business hours, like all commercial shopping malls do. Nobody uses those underground walks at night anyway, people prefer staying on top: in spite of the great effort planners once made to make all pedestrians go underground in the entire Sergels torg district, people in general prefer strolling through the city on ground level, next to cars and buses, especially after dark.

But, don’t stop there: cover the sunken pedestrian plaza with a new one on street level as well. Putting “a lid” over the sunken plaza would provide even more surfaces for shopping underground (beneath the “lid” which would cover the sunken plaza), and simultaneously provide an entire new public square in front of Peter Celsing’s cultural megacenter, at little cost—or no cost—for the tax payers. Let the underground shop owners pay for it all.

Covering up and hiding from view downtown’s underground system of pedestrian tunnels will certainly make Sergels torg, and the street scape around it, less “architectural” (the original intentions of the planners who designed this section of the city will be less evident to the naked eye). It will, however, make modernist downtown Stockholm all the more functional—and pleasant—to the people who use these spaces every day.

Illustration above: (4) Rendering by Mikael Askergren (1995), showing how the sunken plaza could be turned into a public park, if used as a “flowerpot,” filling the already existing whole-in-the-ground with earth, and with the kind of slender pine trees which are typical for Scandinavia, and which would accompany Peter Celsing’s architecture well. Read more about this particular pine tree project here.

I’ve said it before, again and again: art is reduction. Life is addition. Life and art are incompatible. Architecture is reduction. Urbanity is the opposite of architecture, is addition. Urbanity and architecture are incompatible. Do not confuse the two!!!

This incompatibility between life and art is, as such, in and by itself of course no problem (of course it isn’t: it’s not a problem for life, nor is it a problem for art). It does however become a problem (often a great problem) when artists get confused about the two. In the streets and alleys and public parks of our cities, where we live and love and work and toil, “life” is more important than art, urbanity is more important than architecture.

The Big Cover-Up: Rafael Moneo

(Cont.)

I did not expect to be surprised by much of anything when I, in 1998, made my very first visit to the brand new museum of contemporary art in Stockholm (Moderna museet). And for the most part, after having already seen all the floor plans, vertical cuts, and facade elevations published in several architectural magazines, the visit pretty much confirmed my expectations. (That’s the boring aspect of learning how to interpret drawings: buildings start to exist predominantly inside your head, and you appreciate the real thing less and less.) But one thing did surprise me—something I had not been able to foretell by just examining the architectural drawings in print:

At first I could not put my finger on why the Spanish architect Rafael Moneo’s design had this effect on me, but somehow, once inside the building, I immediately felt transported to somewhere outside the country; outside Sweden; outside the realm of the Swedish architecture world. like stepping inside the embassy of some foreign nation, and suddenly finding oneself to be—in legal terms—no longer on Swedish soil: a place where Swedish “architectural law” did not apply: it was as if I no longer was in Stockholm.

Strange, I thought to myself, what could make this building feel instantly so very “foreign.” It could not be its sheer size: there are already other large modern buildings in Stockholm. The museum entrance hall resembled any other contemporary museum entrance anywhere: ticket sales, cloak room, book shop, coffee shop, nothing remarkable or “foreign” about that. And as for the red stucco exterior and the blond interiors, everything was fairly predictable for a new building, especially for a new building in Stockholm.

To get to the permanent collection exhibit, one had little choice but to start walking, and continue walking, down a very long and wide corridor: a corridor of epic proportions, one might say: more corridor than most other corridors. A corridor filled with very much, distilled, pure “corridor-ness” if you like (main corridor marked pink in floor plan above).

This main corridor was clearly intended by the architect to serve as the central spacial feature of the museum (as central a space for the museum, as the tall rotunda space is central to Gunnar Asplund’s famous city library nearby), and clearly not (I repeat, not) designed for exhibiting artworks. the corridor wall was in fact already “finished” (in both meanings of the word): floor-to-ceiling veneer panels (lacquered wood) the full distance of the corridor, from start to finish, made an obvious statement: the wall of the main corridor was not a wall meant to hang pictures against. This was just a wall being a wall, and nothing but a wall. No artworks whatsoever to distract from the corridor’s being a corridor—a very “pure” space. (Yes, in spite of the perhaps somewhat decadent feel of so much veneered paneling, and other finery, one had no choice but to call such a uniform space quite “purist” all the same.)

If there is such a thing as a Swedish national character, it has been suggested that this character consists of, well not being cheap/stingy/miserly/mean about money per se (i.e. not any absolute unwillingness to spend one’s money per se), but rather a strong sense of economy and housekeeping. resources have always been scarce up north: days and summers are short, winters long and cold, one makes the most of everything one has just to survive. So it is very “foreign” to us northerners to not use a long corridor wall in a museum for exhibiting art.

And there you have it, the feature which made this building immediately feel so foreign to me: the relative “uselessness” of the main corridor. Such a dramatic, elongated space felt “foreign,” especially for its programmatic emptiness—an emptiness which of course served the purpose to accentuate and heighten the effect of the innate contrast between the building’s monumental aspect (the “empty” main corridor) and its intimate aspect (its labyrinth of smallish, boxlike exhibition spaces, “filled” with artworks).

But such a “foreign” (catholic?) esprit never survives for long up here in the north. The drive to always make as much “use” of everything is too strong. And, sure enough: it did not take long before the museum’s directors and curators started polluting and corrupting the corridor’s original concept of spacial purity/purism.

Today, ten years later, the veneer paneling is long since gone. The corridor walls are painted white, and plenty of artworks are now on show: conventional paintings in conventional frames, lit conventionally by spotlights, as well as a big section of Andy Warhol’ Cow Wallpaper, of course. And some freestanding sculpture here and there.

But more importantly—exhibiting a few art pieces was never enough to make everyone feel that proper “use” had been made of the corridor. Thus specially designed furniture (to sit on), specially designed magazine racks (to provide reading material to the people who choose to have a sit-down on the specially designed furniture), and new extravagant reading lamps hovering over the specially designed furniture (to provide light for the people who have grabbed some reading material from the magazine racks and have sat themselves down to have a bit of a read) were placed along the full distance of the corridor, all the way, from start to finish.

Ironically: it is very uncomfortable to remain seated on the specially designed furniture for any length of time—to read something, for instance. One might occasionally see somebody sit for a minute or so, but one never—never!—sees anyone sit and read. But this fact seems to be of little consequence: the uselessness (!) of all that new furniture seems to be less of a concern to the people in charge than the “uselessness” of an “empty” corridor. Making the corridor look useful seems more important than to actually, really, “make use” of it.

It’s as if all that clutter of added-on-to furniture is less about providing an opportunity for the museum’s visitors to sit down, but instead all about protecting the museum’s visitors from the experience of pure, “useless” space.

There you have it: it’s a big “cover-up,” folks. The furniture and magazines and lamps serve to cover up, to hide away from sight the original “uselessness” which the architect had intended for this space.

The main architectural feature of the museum has disappeared completely over the years: its main corridor’s purity of space has become more and more cluttered up. Today nothing of that original “foreign embassy” quality remains. None of the original “edginess” remains (if one can ever speak of any “edge” in any of the architecture of Rafael Moneo’s—Moneo is certainly not “edgy”).

It is ironic how an “un-edgy” architect like Moneo (the architectural finishing of floors and doorways and everything else in the museum is much, much too “soft” for my personal taste, as a whole I am in fact not at all a fan of Moneo’s Stockholm museum) managed to spook everyone by instilling into his building the greatest, the “edgiest” provocation imaginable for a museum in Stockholm, Sweden: the idea of space as “pure” space: the exhilarating luxury (?) of allowing oneself to experience space as “just” space, pure and simple, every now and then.

However: deciding to clutter up the main corridor of Moderna museet with all that furniture, etc. was not just architecture’s loss. Also art lost out. I would argue that making “better use” of the long, stark, (in a good way) monotone corridor—such as exhibiting even more of what is already exhibited everywhere else in the building—dilutes the effect of not just the architecture on the visitor, but the effect of the art as well. Sure, more (a greater number of) artworks can be put on display, but the actual effect of this is the opposite of (the expected?) heightened art experience. The corridor’s spacial impact (what’s left of it) competes too much for the attention of the museum’s visitors to make the corridor a really good space for exhibiting and experiencing art. Simultaneously the art on show in the corridor causes a diluting effect on the impact of art on show everywhere else in the building.

But if there is no profit to be gained from messing up the corridor, neither for architecture buffs, nor for art buffs—what is the payoff? Why perpetuate behavior without payoff? Because it’s in our nature; it’s in our national character to just not be able to leave architecture alone (“klåfingrighet”). It’s contrary to everything we profoundly are and feel to let architecture be, well, architectural. If the question “What constitutes Swedish-ness in architecture?” would be put to me, I would reply: the constant strive—on the level of a national, collective neurosis—to always compromise and pollute it (“fasa av, trappa ned, lägga till”); to always insist on turning every piece of fine architecture into non-architecture. This always happens here, mostly sooner rather than later, sometimes later rather than sooner, but eventually it always happens.

The Big Cover-Up: “A Modest Proposal”

(Cont.)

Let’s swap. Let’s change places:

The architectural competition for finding an architect to design an addition to Stockholm’s famous City Library just took place, but the result of the competition has been much criticized—and for good reason. Instead of building a new main branch for the Stockholm municipal public library as an addition to Gunnar Asplund’s famous architectural icon, I agree with the critics:

Create a new main library somewhere else, in a setting where all the modern demands of a main library can be met without having to compromise the Asplund library’s iconic status. But where?

A new main library needs space. And space is plentiful, at a very good address for a big public library, inside the huge cultural megacenter designed by Peter Celsing, downtown: Kulturhuset.

The municipal repertory theater company (Stockholms stadsteater) which resides inside the center would have to move out, of course. But perhaps such a move would bring only good things, also to the theater company. I have already argued elsewhere that the theater company’s downtown business district location of today is less than ideal for activities that take place predominantly at night. During business hours, when the streets are full of people, the theater is closed. After business hours, when the theater opens, the streets are empty. People commuting from the late night performances simply do not feel entirely safe.

However, the cultural center would function very well indeed if it (the center) decided to concentrate on activities that are open during business hours. For instance: the main branch of the public library would be an ideal use for the center in its entirety. The big “black box” cube in the rear, which first was used by the national parliament (as temporary assembly hall), and today is used for the main auditorium/stage of the city theater, has room enough for both the wings, and overhead fly tower, and cellar, and workshops of the city’s largest proscenium theater (that’s how large that “black box” is!), and could easily be transformed into an attractive main hall for the library (lit by day from skylights overhead, just like the parliament assembly hall was), plus—below the the floor of the new main library hall—several floors of extensive storage space for books and other media.

As I’ve explained earlier, the small, mediatech-ish branch of the public library which already functions inside the center is really the only (!) permanent success story of the center since its opening. The library inside the center was always popular. It was popular when the center first opened (library then located on ground level, reachable directly from the piazza). It is popular now (after having moved up two flights of stairs). Apparently, ground floor or upstairs does not matter: all parts of the complex would function very well as parts of the new main branch of Stockholm’s municipal public library.

Critics of the recent architectural library competition have suggested the Slussen neighborhood as the best alternative site in the inner city for a new main library branch (if those in power were to decide to not add to Asplund’s library at all, and instead go to look for other possible sites in the inner city of Stockholm): there is a nice waterfront view, for starters, at Slussen. most public buildings look great on the waterfront.

I find Kulturhuset to be a better choice, better than Slussen: not only is Kulturhuset already an established, and a popular site for a public library branch (albeit at a modest scale up till now), relocating to slussen would never (!) work: those of us who have been around a while remember a proposal for a new, larger sized building complex near Slussen which was praised for its architectural qualities, but never came to be, anyway: the Mynningsladdaren project, designed by Bengt Lindroos (1980s, affectionately called “the cheddar cheese on stilts” in its day). Neither was any of the acclaimed designs by Sven Markelius (1960s and 1970s) for a city theater on the waterfront at slussen ever built. We who remember know that proposing an even bigger building in or near the scenic waterfront setting of Slussen would never come to fruition. Public opinion, and politics, would reject any such proposal.

But as we’ve already seen: luckily, the big empty spaces and floor surfaces that a modernized main library branch craves do in fact already exist, at an address we already know functions very well for a library: inside Kulturhuset, the municipal cultural center downtown.

So, if we move the city theater out of the cultural center, where would we move it? Would the Slussen neighborhood be a possibility?

Unfortunately the sheer size of a new city theater building, with fly towers and all, would have the same problem coming to fruition near scenic Slussen as a library building would. A new theater building at Slussen would never happen (just like a new public library in slussen would never happen).

In addition, Slussen is as problematic a location for a theater (which is really only open at night) as the present location is problematic: Slussen is not an attractive spot after business hours. One would prefer for the city theater to get a new home in a part of town where people move in the streets also at night:

Please note! It’s not the responsibility of the Stockholm City Theater repertory company to make the downtown business district, or Slussen, “come alive” again! Let the good people at the City Theater focus on doing what they do best: on doing theater, not urban renewal! Let the police, and let city planners and politicians worry about dead streets and violence and crime downtown. Instead, bring the theater to where people would be happy to go, also at night.

So, if there will be no library addition next to Asplund’s library, then the site next to Asplund’s library can be used for something else:

I propose the plot next to Gunnar Asplund’s iconic library as the new location for the city theater company: the neighborhood is alive night and day. The site is large enough for the city theater. Since there would be no need for a new theater complex on this site to connect physically with Asplund’s library building, the space between existing library and new theater can be cleared, and used for a plaza, or for extending the park landscape that surrounds Asplund’s library—this possibility will calm anyone who worries about Asplund’s library’s future silhouette being compromised by a new major addition.

(In addition: the steep Observatorielunden public park hill is high and wide enough to hide away the entire proscenium stage, fly towers and all underground, if necessary. This is not what I would personally propose, in my personal opinion there is plenty of room for a theater here, and no reason to hide absolutely everything underground, but the mere fact that such a solution would be possible should calm most of those who fear that a proscenium theater in this location would necessarily turn out to be “too big.”)

To sum up:

1. The large volume of new main branch of the public library fits inside the already existing Kulturhuset cultural center—no problems with a new building that “looks too big.” And the library as institution gains more from such an address downtown than at Slussen, or next to Asplund’s library for that matter.

2. When the main library branch relocates downtown, a new proscenium theater for the city theater can be built in the spot first meant for the library extension. The City Theater as institution would gain from moving to the neighborhood that surrounds Asplund’s library, because it is pleasant and safe also at night. The City Theater would this way manage—at last—to get away from the dead street scape at night downtown.

3. When the city theater moves away from the empty streets downtown, something can be done about the awful, ruined interiors inside Peter Celsing’s cultural center. The dignity of “real architecture” can be brought back. The kitsch can be thrown out.

4. And, as I have already suggested elsewhere: tearing down the first addition to Asplund’s library, to once again expose the exterior of the rotunda—all the way from the top to the ground—should be made a prerequisite in the reinventing process that will have to take place after the main branch of the library has moved downtown (reinventing Asplund’s library as—Yes what? Exciting to toy with ideas such as—a good space for a museum of architecture and/or design? Maybe the “functional” days for Asplund’s icon are over. Maybe it’s time to let it be “just” architecture). Tearing down the fourth side of the square would bring back the architectural drama of the library that has been hidden away ever since the library was added-on-to the first time.

Appendix 2008-10-05

It’s now official: there will be no addition to Gunnar Asplund’s famous Stockholm Public Library. “Too expensive” city officials say. A welcome turn of events: architectural critics rejoice, but the main branch of the Stockholm Public Library still needs a new home. The Asplund building is simply too little.

The Big Cover-Up: Peter Celsing

(Cont.)

Stockholm’s huge municipal cultural megacenter Kulturhuset—a truly majestic modernist public palace, contemporary to, and inspired by, the same ideals as, the Centre Pompidou/Beaubourg in Paris—was designed by (the late) Peter Celsing, after having won the 1966 architectural competition.

The center was, however, not opened to the public until much later, in the 1970s, and at first only in part—as the national Swedish parliament was also housed in the same building for a transitional period, while awaiting the remodeling of the old parliament building nearby. There was actually plenty of room for both exhibitions and parliament sessions, because a large section of the building complex consisted of a gigantic, empty “black box” space, originally intended for the main auditorium of the city’s own municipal, local government run repertory theater company Stockholms stadsteater. The parliament, in more desperate need for temporary shelter than the theater company, simply got inside the big empty box before the theater company did.

Celsing was commissioned to design a large temporary assembly hall for the national parliament where the theater was supposed to be, and Celsing’s parliament design was considered so successful that many parliamentarians say they would have preferred to stay for good.

But no such luck, the national parliament and the prime minister’s cabinet moved back to the old parliament building after a few years. Which was a pity, many say today, because parliament gained nothing from moving back. And, in addition, I personally question the success of the remodeling and reorganizing. In my opinion the public, and the cultural center as institution, lost more than was gained when parliament moved out and the municipal repertory theater company moved in.

Stockholm’s City Theater is arguably the city’s most successful one, both when it comes to the size of its audiences (its main auditorium is the largest proscenium theater in town, I believe), and to the level of its artistic achievements (or so I hear—I’m not much of a theatergoer myself). But for many, many years it had no proper home. Until—some ten or fifteen years ago—the entire theater company moved from their temporary space in an inner city basement (albeit a rather large basement) to its new—and supposed to be permanent—home, smack in the middle of downtown Stockholm; to its very own new proscenium theater auditorium, inside the very large “black box” cube of the already existing municipal cultural center.

When first i heard of the move, many years ago, I thought this could perhaps be a good idea. because that huge concrete-and-glass behemoth had after parliament moved out not ever been able to really make its mark as a major cultural institution in the Swedish capital—in spite of its sheer size. Nor had it ever really found a convincing way for profiting from, or serving, its immediate neighborhood. So I honestly believed, then, that moving in the municipal theater company might do the trick.

This meant having to close the whole center down for quite some time. So once the center reopened, the public was very curious to see what had changed inside from before, as was I. But my first visit after its re-inauguration was a mildly chocking experience. The originally stark, utilitarian, and in their own fashion rather gorgeous late-modern interiors had for some reason been filled with droves of incredibly tacky knickknacks and kitsch (i.e. the adding/sticking pieces of “art” onto a building’s walls and floors and ceilings, to “beautify” its interiors and/or exteriors—paid for with public money, as part of a national government policy to “improve” new architecture—i.e. a bad case of konstnärlig utsmyckning).

All those “works of art” everywhere (especially frequent in the foyers of the brand new theater) were all of them, from what I gathered, produced by painters and sculptors who enjoyed great respect in the art world: experienced professionals, and not by any standard hacks or amateurs, but the total mess to which these participating artists became accomplices when agreeing to attach such masses of weird stick-on “artworks” everywhere—covering up and hiding from view pretty much all of peter celsing’s original design—was destructive and, worse, undignified. Not a shred of artistic integrity, it seemed to me.

I have pretty much stayed away from the municipal cultural center and its theater ever since. After all, I was never much of a theatergoer in the first place. But just recently, for reasons I will not dwell on in this forum, we decided to pick up some last minute tickets and go see Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt at the center.

To my horror—amused horror, I should say—I found all those knickknacks still to be around. But worse still, worse than stumbling over bad “sculpture” everywhere, was having to spend the half-hour intermission in the theater’s very unglamorous foyer (which doubles in the daytime as a sloppy, depressing public canteen/cafeteria). I swore right then and there never to return again to the Stockholm City Theater at the center, never again to go see any of their productions. Not because sitting through the Ibsen performance was any great chore (thanks to Ibsen’s well documented proto-Freudian insights into the human psyche). But because of everything else about that evening out: not least because having to spend intermission in a depressing canteen, surrounded by bad art, was such an insult to one’s senses and sensibilities.

In addition, the fact that theater performances take place at night also matters here: the business district where the center is located is totally dead at night. In the evening, when it’s time for Ibsen, everything else in the neighborhood has closed. Once the shops close, the street scape surrounding the center is completely emptied. There is nobody.

The cultural center was built right in the middle of its sad neighborhood for a purpose: to liven up the area, and to provide an alternative to drab commercialism downtown. Well, it clearly succeeds better at this task during daylight hours, with those activities that are open (also) in the daytime: such as the intimate and very popular and much visited mediatheque-ish branch of the municipal public library, free and open to all, with magazines and newspapers in every imaginable language, some books, and plenty of music to listen to and videos to watch. The success of the city library branch inside the center (the only reliable and constant success since the center opened its doors to the public) proves that the center can function very well, and provide many services to the general public that are much appreciated and really popular—but really only in the daytime, during business hours, when there are people in the neighborhood in the first place. In spite of its hugeness, the center will never be able to “populate” downtown on its own at night. The time for the cultural center to be a safe, pleasant place to visit also at night lies, if anywhere, in the future. The neighborhood has to change first. The center can’t in and by itself change the neighborhood.

Thus: devoting almost the entire cultural center complex to an activity which mostly takes place at night (theater) was a mistake. Add to that the terrible cafeteria, and all that insultingly bad art, and you have to think “What could we change?” Because change is of the essence here.

Yes, I did indeed promise myself that night never to return, never to ever set foot in that ghastly foyer again, never to go see a play at the city theater again.

Such a decision—to completely boycott the Stockholm City Theater from now on—might sound drastic, after just one bad experience, but my decision will in fact not cause any big changes in my lifestyle, since I rarely visit the center’s neighborhood in the first place (wrong part of town, wrong crowd, uninteresting shopping, bad restaurants, etc.), and even less frequently bother to visit the cultural center itself. My life goes on somewhere else, not in that godforsaken part of town.

But on one level, the bad Ibsen experience did bring about sentiments that will have a major effect on me from now on: I used to simply not care about the center, or about the City Theater. But the overwhelming unpleasantness of having to spend intermission in that awful cafeteria, surrounded by all that really bad art, suddenly made me freak out big time. This must stop! The tacky crap that fills Kulturhuset from top to bottom has to be cleaned out, trashed, burnt, incinerated, made extinct! Bring dignity back to Peter Celsing’s masterpiece! Do it now!

So, all in all, it turns out, to redesign the cultural center—to make room inside it for the city’s big municipal repertory theater company—was the wrong thing to do, and wrong for, oh, so many reasons. Because (1) generally speaking, without going into matters of personal taste: this is the wrong neighborhood for concentrating on providing a service (theater) which is not available in the daytime (when the area is full of people) and really only available at night (when nobody’s around). But also (2) on a more personal note: for having pretty much ruined the interiors (and to some extent affected badly the exteriors as well) of one of northern Europe’s most magnificent late-modernist buildings.

All that add-on, stick-on “art” is so bad, so awful, and so detrimental to the existing setting, that it makes you wonder how clueless people can be. It makes you think: perhaps it wasn’t cluelessness that ruined the place. It’s as if ruining the place was the whole point of the exercise! It’s as if ruining the place was just what the people involved wanted! It’s as if the real reason for remodeling was to find an excuse to get to ruin the building.

Why? because, generally speaking, people do not like architecture. The place was ruined—by covering up and hiding from view all imminent architectural qualities of the original design—to “protect” theatergoers, and visitors to the canteen, and visitors to the center’s art shows, from spotting even the smallest trace of “real architecture” anywhere: an architectural “hate crime;” A huge, misguided “architecture cover-up.”

As I have already explained elsewhere, architecture can be used to ruin architecture. But the example of Stockholm’s municipal cultural center proves that you don’t need an architect to ruin a building. You might prefer to use a painter or a sculptor for that purpose instead. It’s probably cheaper, for starters, to cover up and hide architecture from view with a few “art pieces,” cheaper than with more “architecture.”

To sum up: I’ve recently had a major change of hart when it comes to Celsing’s famous, but mistreated cultural center—I have in fact made a total U-turn: from years of total disinterest, to sudden deep concern. I am now convinced of the absolute necessity for making this cultural travesty stop once and for all (I’m not speaking of the performances on stage, I’m speaking of what to do about the building and its ruined architecture)—and, by golly, I think I now know exactly what to do about the situation.

And what I propose has the advantage of cleaning up another problematic architectural mess in the vicinity as well, thus killing two unattractive birds with one stone. I will make my proposal public in the very near future, right here, on this blog. (And those readers who have already seen the first installment in this “the big cover-up” series—about the mess the recent City Library architectural competition left behind—will probably already have an inkling where all this is going.) I shall call it: “A Modest Proposal.” Stay tuned!

The Big Cover-Up: Gunnar Asplund

When the famous Stockholm City Library building, designed by Gunnar Asplund, was first inaugurated in 1928, it looked quite different from today. Only three sides of the square box had walls, the fourth side, in the rear, was left open, thus exposing the tall, slender central cylinder/rotunda from the top all the way to the ground.

Somehow I always liked this dramatic “look” better than what the building became a decade later—when a fourth side was built: ever since, the base of the rotunda/cylinder remains all covered-up and hidden from view on all four sides.

Still, it was Gunnar Asplund, the original architect, who himself got the chance to add to his own original design. But, in my opinion, Asplund should not have covered the fourth side. He should have tried to find a way to leave the cylinder exposed, also as the needs of the library grew with time.

Though I have never, in real life, seen the library the way it looks in early photographs, those early photographs always made me miss the exposed cylinder—if missing something you’ve never actually experienced is at all possible—when passing right next the building in the street, or when catching a glance of the top of the cylinder from nearby Odenplan public square. Or when looking down from the steep, wuthering heights of the Observatorielunden public park next to the library (thinking to myself “What if...”).

The recent international architectural competition (for yet another addition to the famous library building) did not result in any suggestions for restoring the 1928 design with exposed rotunda. (I would have suggested this, had I taken part in the competition. Which I did not.)

There were no such proposals among the competition entries, to my knowledge. Probably since the library is in lack of floor space anyway: tearing down almost a quarter of its present day volume would require the new addition to be even larger than stated in the competition brief. But, personally, I think making such an addition to the volume of the newest addition would have been advisable—if only to make possible the tearing down of Asplund’s own (mediocre by comparison) addition; to make exposing the rotunda/drum/cylinder possible again. Exposing it again would be so cool.

In the wake of the competition, with the winning design scheme being questioned by just about every critic who reviewed the competition result, the idea of just forgetting the competition ever took place, and start afresh, is suggested frequently.

If a new main building for the city library is in fact built somewhere else in the city, and not as any addition to the old main building (which more and more critics are proposing as the best alternative to erecting the winning proposal, and i have to agree with them all, the jury’s efforts and the winning proposal were equally disappointing, I believe reporter Elisabet Andersson explained it better than anyone else, read her account of what made the competition go all wrong, in this article), then it would actually be possible to tear down the fourth side/the first addition to the library. Because Asplund’s library would no longer have to meet the requirements of the modern main branch for all the many branches of Stockholm City Library (there are many branches). When time comes to reinvent the library building of Gunnar Asplund’s—after having moved the main library branch somewhere else—exposing the rotunda once again could (should!) be made one of the prerequisites of such a reinvention process.

After all: art is reduction. Architecture is reduction. Adding more and more to the original design certainly makes it more and more functional—but also diminishes the original’s architectural impact more and more with every addition. If the trivial, functional requirements of a main library can be provided for in a better way somewhere else in the city, the architectural impact of Asplund’s design can again be heightened to the level of its early glory days. By pulling down the fourth side of the square.

So—yes, i say, please find some other place for the future main library branch.

Which place, then? The Slussen district has already been proposed by many critics as a suitable spot.

I myself have another, I think better, idea. I will explain my proposal for cleaning up the city library mess in the very near future, here, on this blog—a proposal which in fact would clean up another mess in the city as well, and thus kill two problematic birds with one stone. Stay tuned!

Peristyle: Goodbye Old Friend

Making architecture disappear: I was quite saddened when only the other day i discovered that they are remodeling the ticket hall—underground peristyle—of subway stop “Östermalmstorg” in my native Stockholm. I immediately regretted not having photographed this extraordinary and monumental underground hall before they started messing with it. The rather vast hall will, from what I understand, pretty much disappear as the spacious colonnade—with its sophisticatedly designed concrete columns (cross shaped base and shaft/square capital)—is being filled with shops à la shopping mall.

This I found very sad on a personal level, because this is perhaps the one space in my native city where I “discovered” architecture: how it is made, how it works, how it affects one’s mind.

I had for years been passing through this space, not really paying attention to it, other than sensing this space to be “different” from other spaces of the Stockholm public transport subway system (the Tunnelbana).

But for some reason, one day I came to reflect on why I thought of it as “different.” And, presto, I had discovered architecture: hey, wait a minute, I thought to myself, when you walk down the stairs from the street to the underpass level, you only walk one short flight of stairs. The ceiling of the underpass is really low, because the street is just above it. But once you arrive in the ticket hall, it’s really spacious all of a sudden. Yet I am still as close to the street level as before. There should be no room for such a high ceiling, and such tall columns, when the underpass was dug so shallowly; dug to just below street level.

The rather large volume and columns of the ticket hall must therefore be sticking up somewhere in the city, high over the street level. It should be visible from all around as a blank concrete box sticking up out of the ground. But I had never seen such a thing in the street. Where was it hidden?

I was just a kid in middle school, and needed a method to solve this conundrum—but had had no introduction to any such method at my young years. I had to invent my method: I started to in my mind build 3d models, I suppose, combining plan and section/elevation, trying to solve this intricate 3d puzzle.

The solution to the puzzle was simple, of course, once i had figured it out: the underpass was long enough to lead well away from the public street, in under a nearby building. This building, which I figured had to be hiding the ticket hall top section from sight, looked normal enough from the street: store fronts, shop windows. But if I should decide to drive a bulldozer right through one of the shops, breaking through the back wall, I would not arrive in a courtyard or parking lot, as expected, I would come crashing through the upper part of the wall of the ticket hall colonnade, I would fall merciless several meters/feet, crashing into the ticket hall floor below, below street/shop level.

But how would the public transport authority get to create such an extraordinary thing? How would they get to use up so much land and space for a vast hall; land and space which the land owner would rather use for something more beneficial to him- or herself personally (a pleasant courtyard garden? a car park? more floor surface for shops to let?). I realized there must have been some sort of deal-making between the public transport authority (i.e. the tax payers) and land owner in question to solve the conflict between public and private interest. Or the public sector/government would have had to purchase the entire plot of land. So which was it? I took notice of what kind of offices/activities filled the building on the floors above the normal looking store fronts, and the building seemed to be used exclusively by tax funded things (public health care, etc.). I assumed that this particular building—which looked pretty much like all other buildings around it—probably was not privately owned like most of its neighbors. It was probably owned by the Stockholm county (Stockholms läns landsting—which is responsible both for Stockholm public transport and public health). Ownership certainly made a difference here.

I had thus discovered that architecture works on all possible levels. Architecture is not just a visual and spatial experience, architecture—and the visual and spatial experience of it—depends entirely on financial, political, and social factors; depends entirely on ownership, etc. I had learned that a price had had to be payed to make the Östermalmstorg station peristyle possible: to raise the ceiling of the ticket hall, floor surface was lost for letting to shops in one of Stockholm’s busiest shopping districts. and I had also learned that architecture indeed “works” even when people don’t pay attention to it: I had after all, on some inarticulate level in my mind, already noticed that this particular ticket hall was “different” from (was “better” than) all other comparable spaces in the city’s entire subway system long before consciously reflecting over how such an effect could be achieved by architectural means. It took some figuring out for a middle school kid, without ready tools, just how and why this space was different/better, but the architecture was “working on me” long before I stopped to think about such matters. I had learned that architecture changes things, and affects the lives of people—also when not reflected upon actively by the people experiencing it.

My beloved underground peristyle is going to the dogs: goodbye dear old friend. But, hey, perhaps one day everyone will realize what was lost in the process, and someone will restore the peristyle to its original splendor. Goodbye—and see you again sometime?

(The vertical section of the underground peristyle of the Östermalm subway station comes from the public archives of the Stockholm planning department. The above vintage photograph of the östermalmstorg subway station “peristyle” ticket hall the way it looked originally, before the recent remodeling—with all its tall slender columns still freestanding, uncluttered—published here on this blog by kind permission from Spårvägsmuseet, the museum of public transport in Stockholm, Sweden.)

P.S. Does anyone who reads this have more pictures of the Östermalmstorg ticket hall colonnade as it was before, in its original splendor? Would you consider sending them to me and let me post them on this blog? D.S.

Om en arkitektur utan arkitekter: del 4

(Forts.)

Diskussionen på File Publishings blogg fortsätter, här är mitt senaste inlägg – med några stavfel och annat tillfixat i efterhand:

Pär Eliaeson! Jag gillar att du använder glosan »lakej» som ett positivt laddat ord. Men för att undvika all språkförbistring: det är naturligtvis absolut nödvändigt att betona, och klargöra skillnaden mellan att (1) vara en kvalificerad uppdragsgivares »lakej» – typ hovarkitekt – och (2) underhuggare i trälhavet på ett mediokert arkitektkontor som någon mellanchefs ritslav och »lakej». Det är ju naturligtvis det första slaget av lakejskap vi syftar på när vi talar om lakejskapet som fuckin’ virtue, som dygd, inte sant, Pär: dygden att inse – och omfamna (embrace) – att man är lakej...

Jag brukar säga att arkitektkåren upphörde att bejaka sitt lakejskap – började revoltera mot att ses som lakejer – kring 1789/franska revolutionen (som överlevnadsstrategi: när arkitekterna blev skraja för att associeras med, och därför giljotineras tillsammans med, sina kvalificerade, adliga/kungliga uppdragsgivare). Sedan 1789 är uppdragsgivaren Fienden! Med stort F!

Helgalet. Och kontraproduktivt.

Men jag tror vi två har bloggat/chattat/diskuterat arkitekters lakejskapsvägran och uppdragsgivarförakt en gång tidigare, inte sant. Det måste ha varit du som den gången använde signaturen »Pär E», inte sant.

Den gången lät det bland annat så här (om File eller någon annan tycker att jag postar för långa bidrag till diskussionen, just let me know – eller scrolla helt enkelt förbi det långa citatet):

Till Pär E: ja just så, jag tror vi är ganska överens. Trots all postmodernistisk kritik mot ideologierna fortsätter arkitekterna (till exempel) att intala sig att de är altruister. Då inträffar det märkliga att eftersom den person eller institution som gett dem uppdrag att rita en villa, en skola, whatever, per definition inte kan representera den stora, medellösa massan (eftersom han, hon, den eller det ju är privilegierad, eftersom han, hon, den eller det har råd att bygga sig ett eget hus) intalar sig arkitekten att uppdragsgivaren definitionsmässigt måste vara »den stora massans» (läs: arkitektens) fiende. Oavsett om uppdragsgivaren är rik bankdirektör eller fattig hembygdsförening förutsätts uppdragsgivarens motiv vara suspekta och framförallt uteslutande i eget intresse. Uppdragsgivaren måste därför motarbetas – i »det allmännas namn». Ju längre man »lurar» beställaren bort från det »hemska» egennyttiga till något som uppfattas som mer »allmännyttigt», desto bättre (och desto fler applåder från andra arkitekter, arkitekturtidskrifter, och arkitekturakademiker). Arkitektkåren gör allt för att inte komma egenintresset till mötes. Syftet med detta är »altruistiskt». men tyvärr har det visat sig att det inte riktigt låter sig göras att vara »altruist» (postmodernismens ideologikritik – som du själv påpekar, Pär: Miljonprogrammet som exempel). Med en arkitektkår som i »det allmännas namn» tar sig rätten att »slåss för de svagas intressen, mot de starka», det vill säga att motarbeta och ständigt sätta sig på tvären och sabotera eller åtminstone pervertera uppdragsgivarens intentioner, och att faktiskt »lura» uppdragsgivaren och ge honom eller henne något annat än han/hon egentligen vill ha och behöver (det är detta som en »arkitektutbildning» de facto går ut på, om man läser mellan raderna, en uppfostran till gerillakrigföring mot uppdragsgivare, till att bita den hand som föder en), kan resultatet bara bli ett: hus och stadsplaner som varken fungerar för »priviligierade» eller för »den stora massan». De rika bryr sig inte längre om att anlita arkitekt då de bygger villa i Djursholm, de beställer ett fabriksfärdigt hus ur en katalog, om en arkitekt skall rita en villa blir det ju aldrig bättre än en medelklassigt präktig mediokritet i alla fall (se bildreportage från villabyggandet i Djursholm, »Arkitektur för rika», Bibel nr 2-1998). De underpriviligierade å sin sida kan inte byta eller bygga sig ny bostad hur som helst utan får ta det som bjuds, men hämnas på »altruismen» genom att bomba pendeltågvagnar och pissa i betongförorternas trapphus. Arkitekterna blir sittande och undrar vad som hänt, varför ingen längre vill ha deras tjänster. De inbillar sig att de verkligen genuint är altruister och varför blir de i så fall inte älskade av alla för sin oegennytta? Men motiven bakom arkitektkårens »altruism» (och journalistkårens, och politikerkårens...) är egentligen inte alls altruistiska. Då revolutionen och giljotinen uppfanns skrämdes eliterna av den stora massan, av pöbeln till egalitarism och demokratism. Det europeiska undantag som bekräftar regeln är väl Frankrike, en nation av ’halv-serber’ (om uttrycket tillåts i dessa krigstider) där »äran» (gloire) fortfarande är så viktig att en handfull spjutspetsarkitekter är ständigt upptagna att rita och uppföra diverse presidenters grands projets. Fransmännen är galna, på sitt sätt, galna på ett sätt som påminner om galenskaperna vi hör talas om på Balkan, eller från förortsghetton där pojkar som är sprungna ur invandrade bondesamhällens blodskulturer går omkring och »kräver respekt». Därför är Paris den moderna Arkitekturens (med stort A) huvudstad i Europa. Arkitektur (med stort A) har som sagt ingenting med modernitet att göra – ens då den kläs i en hypermodernistisk dräkt (det är just fransmännen mycket bra på) –, har ingenting med demokrati, eller med västerländsk sekularisering att göra, kan inte ha det. Det man kommer att säga om vårt sekels arkitektur när man blickar tillbaka på den som historia, är att betongförorterna var strålande konstverk (om än omöjliga att bo i), och att de grands projets som uppfördes på skattebetalarnas bekostnad av äregiriga franska presidenter med klart egennyttiga syften (nya nationalbiblioteket i Paris, osv) paradoxalt nog kommer att visa sig mycket nyttigare också för allmänheten, än de anläggningar som uppförts i altruismens namn. Ity det som är bra för en beställare (t ex för en presidents äregirighet) är ofta bra för också andra. Det som inte ens är bra för uppdragsgivaren är sällan bra för någon annan heller, allra minst för »den stora massan». En framtidsvision: samhället bestämmer sig för att glömma arkitekternas klagovisor. Arkitektutbildningen får leva kvar i en spjutspetsskola som tar in kanske en eller två elever per år eller vartannat år (ungefär som regissörsutbildningen på DI). Det finns bara plats för en eller två verkligt bra arkitekter i varje nation eller språkområde vid varje given tidpunkt. Dessa få utvalda ägnar sig åt att rita det som en handfull beställare önskar sig skall vara utöver det vanliga (det vi kommer att minnas i arkitekturhistorieböckerna i framtiden). Resten blir byggt ändå, om det behövs, och det blir inte sämre än om »arkitekter» projicerat sin altruism på dessa byggnader för den stora massan i den stora vardagen, förmodligen snarare tvärt om. För några år sedan var jag handledare för en kurs på arkitektskolan vid KTH i Stockholm. Uppgiften löd: rita ett lyxresidens för en busrik beställare i Djursholm. I programmet ingick parametrar som 12.000 kubikmeters byggnadsvolym (t ex en 30m djup x 40m bred x 10m hög volym, jättestort för ett enfamiljshushåll, således), inomhus parkering för minst tolv bilar, samt ett utrymme inomhus med plats för en tolv meter hög inomhus julgran. Studenterna tvingades därigenom att släppa normböckerna, kunde inte längre gömma sig bakom »altruismen» i godkända handikapptoaletters och sovrums mått. I den skalan går det inte längre att förlita sig på flummandet om »den stora massans behov», i den jätteskalan kan man bara ägna sig åt – just – arkitektur. Efter en del skitnödighet och ångest under projektets första veckor blev slutresultatet storartat, några av de bästa projekt som ritats på den skolan. Många av de fast anställda lärarna ansåg det vara ett »förskräckligt» projekt med »hemsk» moral. Jag fick chansen att försvara upplägget i tidningen (intervju i SvD City den 31 maj 1995). Vad finns det för anledning att ens ägna sig åt arkitektur om det inte är det storartade man får ägna sig åt? Resten av byggandet (det vardagliga) klarar sig lika bra utan arkitekter, om inte bättre, som sagt. Naturligtvis lär ingen av de elever som deltog i projektet få bygga något liknande under sina framtida karriärer, men de kom under dessa veckor förmodligen närmare sina egna talanger och sina verkliga drifter än någonsin tidigare på den skolan. Någon kom kanske på att han eller hon borde bli popstjärna istället (det är jättetrist att jobba på arkitektkontor, särskilt om man vill »mer» än att bara vara byggföretagens underbetalda lakej). Och de som fortsätter rita bostadsområden för HSB kommer förhoppningsvis, det var min ambition, reagera med misstänksamhet när det på jobbet talas om dygden av att vara »altruist» som arkitekt. Mer om det här med altruism: Simon Spies lät bygga sig en fantastisk, rund, kupoltäckt sommarvilla i vit plast och glas i Stockholms skärgård 1969 (läs boken, fina bilder, jag skrev texten, boken om Villa Spies, kom ut 1996). Arkitektåren avskydde villan, därför att den var så hedonistisk, så egennyttig. Men i själva verket var det ett uppriktigt försök att skapa en prototyp för massproduktion. Min övertygelse att den (villan) som »altruistiskt» projekt lyckades mycket bättre än samtida »altruistiska» projekt avsedda för massans bruk, därför att Simon Spies och arkitekten Staffan Berglund inte försökte bygga något som »någon annan» (vagt uttryckt) skulle tycka om utan något som de själva i första hand tyckte om. Man måste göra det som är bra för en själv om man vill lyckas göra något som är bra också för andra. Hälsningar, Mikael Askergren.

Känns det igen, Pär?

(som synes ovan använde jag fortfarande uttrycket »arkitektur med stort A» den gången, 1999. Apropå mina förslag till språkbruksreformer tidigare i denna diskussion här hos File.)

“Askergren is Back!”

“Askergren is back!” is a quote from the blog of Swedish architectural review Kritik spreading the word about the return of Mikael Askergren to the architectural debate.

Turning a Corner: Hotell Anglais

Corner of Biblioteksgatan and Humlegårdsgatan, Stockholm, Sweden.

Inner city hotel (Hotell Anglais) designed by architect Leif Damgaard in 1967. The floor plan reveals the reason for those otherworldly, mysterious balconies without windows (they are part of a system of fire escapes for the hotel rooms in the rear, which fire fighters would not be able to reach from the ladder of a fire truck in the street). Floor plan from the public archives of the Stockholm planning department.

Om en arkitektur utan arkitekter: del 3

(Forts.)

Två korta texter, här lätt redigerade i efterskott, ursprungligen för File Publishings nya debattblogg den 26 februari 2008:

1. Hej Pär Eliaeson: vad är det för fel på stjärnarkitekter?

Personligen har jag oerhört mycket svårare för den arkitekt som försöker utge sig för något annat än egoman; som försöker rädda världen; försöker framstå som gräsrot som »tjänar det allmännas bästa»; »tjänar den lilla människan». Den skada arkitekter gör (ja! arkitekter gör skada!) står i direkt omvänd proportion till deras stjärnstatus. Det är inte de enstaka självhävdande stjärnarkitekterna med oförblommerade megalomani (i den mån sådant förekommer) och/eller konstnärsmytsvurmande stjärnarkitekter som »börjar dagen med att måla lite akvarell» (Steven Holl) som ställer till mest oreda i livet för det stora flertalet. Värst är alla de horder av arkitekter – oftast i den offentliga sektorn – som försöker dölja sin megalomani eller sina frustrerade konstnärsanspråk i fraser om altruism: jämför Stockholms Alexander Wolodarski – med S:t Eriksområdet, S:t Eriks torn och Starrbäcksängen på sitt samvete. Han är anställd av Stockholms stad! För att tjäna Stockholms allmänhet! Det är det vi betalar honom för med våra skattemedel; att tjäna oss, inte sina egna syften!

Sådana fasoner är så oerhört mycket mera provocerande än en eller annan arkitektonisk miss av en stjärnarkitekt som ritat något maffigt för en privat beställare.

Konstnärsmyten är ett gissel, visst, men mest ett gissel för den plågade arkitekten personligen. Ett värre gissel är altruistmyten – den »gode» arkitekten. Närhelst jag hör en arkitekt svamla som om han/hon förde de resurssvaga massornas talan osäkrar jag min revolver!

Du, Pär Eliaeson, verkar tala från en Uppsalahorisont – du låter i vilket fall som helst en vacker bild av just Uppsalas stadshorisont kröna din och arkitekturtidskriften Kritiks blogg. Jag har ännu inte besökt nya konserthuset i Uppsala, men är inte den bilden tagen från konserthusets foajé högt över de omgivande kvarterens takåsar? Apropå din spydighet nyss om stjärnarkitekter – man kan tycka vad som helst om Henning Larsen (personligen är jag för det mesta inte imponerad: Malmö stadsbibliotekstillbyggnad är inte bra, tornet vid Södra station ännu värre), men var det bara av ondo att en (i vissas ögon) stjärna till arkitekt (Larsen) lanserade idén om en foajé högt över takåsarna i Uppsala? Det var väl den idén han vann tävlingen med, kan tänka. Är inte uppsalaborna rätt glada åt sin nya konserthusfoajé högt över takåsarna, trots det pris (i kronor och ören) man fått betala för den? Är det enstaka stjärnarkitekters självhävdelser i enstaka mastodontbyggen (uppsala konserthus, exempelvis) som ställer till mest problem för den stora menigheten, eller är det snarare de mer anonyma planarkitekternas alla rivningar och trafikregleringar i Uppsalas stadskärna som genom åren gjort livet surt för uppsalaborna? (Förmodligen påstod den tidens planarkitekter att uppsala stadscentrums rivningar »måste till», och att de genomfördes »för det allmännas bästa» – när man i själva verket aldrig »måste» någonting som helst, och när det nog snarare förhåller sig så att det under högkonjunkturer alltid kliar i alla arkitekters fingrar att få riva och bygga nytt, bygga något helt eget, som smickrar den egna fåfängan – till vilket pris som helst.)

Stjärnarkitekter som utför enskilda uppdrag – flipp. Offentligt anställda planarkitekter med »goda intentioner» – flopp. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Du, Pär Eliaeson, håller med mig om att hellre ingen arkitekt alls än en dålig arkitekt. så långt är vi eniga, men din salva mot just stjärnarkitekterna reagerar jag mot. De (arkitektstjärnorna) är tacksamma att bespotta, eftersom de bygger ett och annat som inte blir så lyckat. och när stjärnarkitekterna inte lyckas, då blir det misstag som verkligen syns lång väg. Men de enstaka arkitekturmissfostren som står här och där i terrängen är trots allt lättare att överse med, anser undertecknad, än det som »anti-stjärnstatusarkitekter» (om uttrycket tillåts) plågar oss med varje dag, i synnerhet inom stadsplaneringen.

2. Hej igen Pär Eliaeson

För att vara lite tydligare angående just konstnärsmyten än i mitt inlägg nyss:

Konstnärsmyten är ett gissel, visst, men frågan är om det är stjärnarkitekter med konstnärskomplex som är värst (det är lätt att göra sig lustig över Steven Holls morgonakvareller), eller om det är planarkitekter med konstnärskomplex som är värst.

Stjärnarkitekter behöver inte hymla med sin fåfänga, de behöver inte förställa sig eller ge sken av att vara ute efter något annat ände verkligen är ute efter. Planarkitekterna, å sin sida, i den mån de lider av att arbetet lämnar föga utrymme för personligt uttryck, måste ljuga. Och de kan relativt lätt skaffa sig större manöverutrymme, så länge de ljuger:

1. Lögnen riktad till uppdragsgivare och allmänheten – och/eller ännu värre:

2. Självbedrägeriet. Att intala sig själv att man agerar altruistiskt när man i själva verket är hög på den tripp som självhävdelsen ger.

»Altruism» inom arkitekturen är ett intellektuellt och konstnärligt bedrägeri. Jagför min del har lättare att fördra den stjärnarkitektarkitektur där vem som helst kan se att, jaha, det där huset har ritats av en stjärnarkitekt med egomani/en fåfäng stjärnarkitekt med konstnärskomplex, och resultatet är visserligen inte alls i min smak, men han/hon ägnar sig åtminstone inte åt (själv-)bedrägeri, och jag slipper själv känna att någon ljuger för mig.