Great Expectations

"...I don't understand how my architecture has come to be representative of the Norwegian spirit, when I have, in fact, been trying all my life to imitate the Japanese," said Sverre Fehn in the 1990s. And he was a quiet man from the shadowless world of the North, not an American enfant terrible.

The West, which at that time had been breathing the oxygenated air of postmodernism for several decades, was still permeated by the new romantic frisson of regionalism. In the spirit of pluralism, peripheral cultures had long ago been called upon to reveal their local values to the world, in the hope that this might be the source of a new aesthetic potential. The idea that the enclaves of culture would provide the solution to the dictatorship of modernism and its devastating remnants seemed full of promising prospects. But, all in all, a great disappointment followed. Most peripheral cultures, frustrated, pounced on their agricultural past in a new crusade to liberate authentic craft values - to no avail. However, out of a haze of vague and unconvincing local recognition, a few international stars such as Barragán, Siza, Makovecz, Snozzi and Sverre Fehn emerged. And time has proved that they were indeed right.

He was right, Barragán, who traveled and admired and quoted all his life the French artist Ferdinand Bac (nephew of Napoleon Bonaparte), who stayed in Paris and listened to Le Corbusier's lectures, and was convinced until his death that the home should not be a living machine. He, the man who came up with the idea of the wired space at the Salk Institute, when Kahn was planning to make gardens there. He, the totally non-functionalist modernist, wedded to the idea of emotional architecture, while the whole world was singing the chorus of rationality. He was a sort of minimalist avant la lettre, but with a way with color. It's true that he built most of his architecture at home, in quasi anonymity, until, at the age of 73, he received his first recognition in the form of a retrospective exhibition at MoMA in New York. It was then that he was proved right all his life, Barragán, the Mexican "regional" who worked with stone, wood and light, but without ever claiming them from the Olmec tradition.

Siza, today's student idol, is the only one of them to have worked under dictatorship and not traveled until he came of age, a few years after the Portuguese revolution of '74. Since then, however, he has been internationally accredited, though his architecture anywhere has never made any more explicit allusion to Portuguese tradition. So much so that, at home, he contradicted it less.

Imre Makovecz was the only architect who had the extraordinary courage to disobey the absolute dictatorship of modern language, and he survived. (Modern language is like capitalism: it endures because no alternative has been found that is at least as good.) What a miracle, but one that has never been repeated. The Makovecz phenomenon remained, with all its school, a closed chapter. But then he was forgiven for his transgression, because he did indeed have something to say to the world. Something about anthroposophy and about Rudolf Steiner, his fellow countryman in the empire - but that is between us. In the rest of the world, everyone understood what they wanted from his plastic and expressive, even funambulistic forms. Some saw them as organic. They were reed and shingle, with veined and curved walls, and it was not at all difficult to relate them to the fashionable term: vernacular. If need be, they could suggest a folkloric treasure trove to those who wanted to see it. For the others, they had little to do with any possible archetypes or Hungarian architectural traditions, which, moreover, remained a mystery. After all, Makovecz expressed his own artistic identity from a tradition skilfully honed. And it was approved.

Ticino, a region of dual citizenship, frequently self-contested, with a strong but imprecise identity, has only been heard of in architecture for some 20-30 years. The region's architectural past included a few medieval castles, the more recent tradition the lakeside villas of retired celebrities, and the local pride the great architects that Ticino gave to Rome in the Renaissance and Baroque. So it is that the "regional" Snozzi has burst out of nowhere as a very personal architect, working on the slopes with apparent concrete, geometry and flat roofs. Unlike all the others, he contradicted everything that could be contradicted in terms of local tradition and relationship to geography, but he did so with an extraordinary instinct of place that only he knows how to explain.

And, finally, he was right, the discreet but surprising northerner, with his stature as a modernist as unabashed as a glacier, but with his cosmopolitan, supple and contemporary formation, like the movement of the glacier. Sverre Fehn came from a special culture in which nature was not just a context but a component of architecture. Although Scandinavia did not allow modernism much compared to the desolation in other parts of Europe, the Norwegian soul was left sorely affected after his passing, as if in the aftermath of a hurricane. That's why it reacted with an "exaggerated" nationalism, according to their self-criticism. What followed was a reorientation of architects towards Europe, through travel, internships and magazine traffic. This generation included Sverre Fehn, who first learned the art of detailing in Paris from Jean Prouvé, picked up something from Le Corbusier, then learned the lesson of traditionalism in Morocco. He took models from there and cleverly adapted them at home. Then the origin of the model was lost and the new creation remained as a model. When he was discovered abroad and interviewed, he said: 'When I work at home, I don't feel Norwegian at all, nor do I think about it. But my buildings certainly come out Norwegian, because I work with Norwegian craftsmen, with Norwegian wood and concrete, in a Norwegian climate and on a Norwegian topography. So, sooner or later, my foreign ideals practically fade away evanescently by themselves."

The 1990s called this the sense of place.

"...What I fail to understand is how my architecture ended up being representative for the Norwegian spirit, when I have actually labored all my life to emulate the Japanese", Sverre Fehn said at some point in the 90s. And, far from being an American enfant terrible, he was in fact but a quiet man, coming from the shadeless world of the North.

The West, which had been breathing the oxygen-rich air of postmodernism for some time, was still shaken by the Romantic thrill of regionalism. In the spirit of pluralism, peripheral cultures had been called upon long ago to unveil their local values to the world, in the hope that one might uncover there the sources of a new aesthetic potential. The idea that cultural enclaves could provide the solution against the dictatorship of modernism and its devastating remains seemed an extremely promising prospect. However, great disappointment was to follow. Most peripheral cultures, frustrated as they were, rushed to embrace their agricultural past in a new crusade for the assertion of authentic craftsmanship values, to no avail. Still, from the thick fog of a vague and hesitating local recognition, there emerged several international stars such as Barragán, Siza, Makovecz, Snozzi or Sverre Fehn. And time has proven that they indeed were right.

Barragán was right, he who traveled all his life and also quoted all his life French artist Ferdinand Bac (a nephew of Napoleon Bonaparte), who stayed in Paris and attended Le Corbusier's courses, further to which he remained convinced until his death that a dwelling should not be a habitation machine. He, who had the idea of the space with a water stream at the Salk Institute, while Kahn intended to place gardens there. He, the utterly non-functionalist modernist, attached to the idea of an emotional architecture, while the whole planet was busy singing the anthem of rationalism. He, some sort of minimalist avant la lettre, who was nevertheless very good with his colors. It's true that he built almost all of his architecture at home, virtually anonymous, until the age of 73, when he got his first recognition in the form of a retrospective exhibition at MoMA in New York. It was then that he proved how right he had been all of his life, he, Barragán, the "regional" Mexican working in stone, wood and light, without ever reclaiming himself from the Olmec tradition.

Siza, the today students' idol, is the only one of them who had worked under dictatorship and had not traveled until his adult years, namely several years until after the Portuguese revolution of '74. Since then, however, he has received international recognition, notwithstanding that his architecture, wherever it may find itself, has never referred too explicitly to the Portuguese tradition. It is just that, when at home, he contradicted it less.

Imre Makovecz was the only architect who had the extraordinary courage to disobey the absolute dictatorship of modern language and who also got out of it alive (modern language is very much like capitalism: it resists over time because no alternative at least just as good as it has been found). It was basically a miracle, which did not repeat itself. The Makovecz phenomenon, despite the school of followers it led to, has remained a closed chapter. But he was forgiven the misconduct because he indeed had something to say to the world; something about anthroposophy and about Rudolf Steiner - it's true, his fellow citizen in the Empire, but this remains between us. The rest of the world made whatever they understood of those expressive, even grotesque, forms. Some saw them as organic. They did boast reed and shingles and curvy whitewashed walls, so it was not hard at all to link them to the then fashionable term: vernacular. They could even come up with a folklore treasure for those who wished to see it. As for the others, his work did not have much to do with any Hungarian archetypes of architectural traditions, which were a mystery anyway. Practically, Makovecz expressed his own artistic identity out of a masterfully concocted tradition. And he got recognition for it.

Ticino, a region with double citizenship which is very often challenged, with a strong, but imprecise identity, has made its name heard in architecture only in the past 20-30 years. The architectural past of the region includes several medieval castles, while the recent tradition boasts the stars' lakeside villas; the locals also pride themselves on the great architects given by Ticino to Rome during the Renaissance and the baroque times. This is how the "regionalist" Snozzi emerged, seemingly out of nowhere, as a very personal architect working on slopes with apparent concrete, geometry and terrace roofs. Unlike all the others, he contradicted everything that could be said in terms of local tradition and relationship with geography, but he did it with an extraordinary sense of the place that only he knows how to explain.

And finally the one who was right was he, the unassuming Norse, with his modernist stature, unflinching as a glacier, but with a cosmopolitan background, supple and contemporaneous like the movement of the glacier. Sverre Fehn came from a special culture, in which nature had been not only a context, but also a component of architecture. Although Scandinavia did not care much for modernism by comparison with the devastation it caused in other parts of Europe, after its passage the Norwegian soul remained painfully affected, like after a hurricane. It reacted by an "immoderate" nationalism, according to its own advocates. The consequence was the architects' turning towards Europe by taking trips, undergoing traineeships and engaging in magazine traffic. It was the generation to which Sverre Fehn also belonged, who first learned the art of detail in Paris from Jean Prouvé, learned from Le Corbusier as well, and then learned the lesson of traditionalism in Morocco. He took over models from there and smartly adapted them at home. Then the origin of the model was lost and the new creation remained as the new model. When discovered abroad and interviewed, he declared: "When I work at home I do not feel Norwegian at all and I don't even think about it. But my buildings do emerge as Norwegian, naturally, because I work with Norwegian craftsmen, with Norwegian wood and concrete, in the Norwegian climate and on its landscape. So sooner or later the ideals which I formed abroad vanish into the air by themselves".

The 90s called this the sense of place.