
Amir Djalali
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The Dutch case is particularly instructive, since the Netherlands provided a vast network of public funding institutions for non-academic architectural research initiatives. In in the aftermath of the 2008 crisis, this network acted as a true welfare institution, allowing architects to find work opportunities after the shrinkage of the traditional architecture job market. Yet, this public spending is not to be seen just as a simple welfare policy, but it acted as a new model of urban development, triggering a series of urban renewal projects based on the injection of “creative” activities in vacant buildings and problematic neighborhoods.
The public funding model is probably destined to an end. In 2011, the Dutch government approved cuts for 200 million euros to cultural activities, which led to the disappearance of internationally renowned architecture research institutions, such as the Berlage Institute. Nevertheless, the effects of the economic crisis seem to have brought permanent structural and anthropological transformations in the profession of architecture. In this process, new institutions and new subjectivities are emerging. The figure of the Dutch architect is today far from that of the 1990s, which was epitomized by the figure of the Superdutch—a cynical, brutally optimist white male able to surf on top of the waves of the Dutch “Golden Age”. This article attempts to sketch the portrait of the new architect-researcher as a knowledge worker, caught between contrasting forces of precarity of employment, budget cuts, populism, co-optation and gentrification.
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Yet, perhaps because of their untimely character, Meyer’s methods and ideas have inspired generations of architects after the German master’s death, alimenting a minoritarian yet productive underground legacy of studies and recuperations.
From our present vantage point, it is uncanny to note how some of Meyer’s prophecies, once dismissed as the delirium of a Stalinist zealot, have become part of our everyday practice as architects, students or educators. Ironically, this did not happen as a consequence of the end of the capitalist economy as Meyer wanted, but as a product of its most advanced developments.
How can Meyer’s attitude towards his times help us in constructing an ethics for architecture in the age of its demise?
The didactic and professional engagement of Swiss architect Hannes Meyer between the years of his appointment as the director of the Bauhaus and his Soviet experience, is taken as an example of this third concept of autonomy. Meyer was conscious of the fact that architecture was at that time conditioned by industry under a capitalistic organization. Rather than resorting to an idea of original purity of an allegedly “revolutionary” architecture, Meyer saw the seeds of liberation in compromising architecture with industry even more. According to Meyer, Architecture is not enough overdetermined by industry, its tools are not yet enough standardized. Capital is the force that impedes this process, not the one that produces it, and only the destruction of capitalistic command will produce a complete assimilation of architecture with industry and life. In this process, the intellectual labour of the architect will become undistinguished from the manual labour of the construction worker: the liberated architect is a proletarized architect.
Meyer’s analysis, rather than the prophecy of a zealous communist fanatic, sounds today a lucid and bitter analysis of today’s conditions for architects, who have to face the reality of temporary contracts, low wages and unpaid internship, often with the threat of a study debt to be paid back. Architects have really become proletarians, but against their will. Besides that, architecture has lost its disciplinary foundations: fundamental design choices are today completely overdetermined by technical and financial parameters. The design process is reduced to a pure mechanism of governance, and its procedures are automatized by standardized digital tools such as BIM.
But at the same time architectural practice has never been so collectivized as it is today. The “death of the author” and the procedures of mechanical writing, once fantasized by a small group of avantgarde artists, are now the everyday reality of architectural production. Can we think of a new project of autonomy to isolate and liberate the positive tendencies which are latent in the contemporary modes of production of architecture?"
The Dutch case is particularly instructive, since the Netherlands provided a vast network of public funding institutions for non-academic architectural research initiatives. In in the aftermath of the 2008 crisis, this network acted as a true welfare institution, allowing architects to find work opportunities after the shrinkage of the traditional architecture job market. Yet, this public spending is not to be seen just as a simple welfare policy, but it acted as a new model of urban development, triggering a series of urban renewal projects based on the injection of “creative” activities in vacant buildings and problematic neighborhoods.
The public funding model is probably destined to an end. In 2011, the Dutch government approved cuts for 200 million euros to cultural activities, which led to the disappearance of internationally renowned architecture research institutions, such as the Berlage Institute. Nevertheless, the effects of the economic crisis seem to have brought permanent structural and anthropological transformations in the profession of architecture. In this process, new institutions and new subjectivities are emerging. The figure of the Dutch architect is today far from that of the 1990s, which was epitomized by the figure of the Superdutch—a cynical, brutally optimist white male able to surf on top of the waves of the Dutch “Golden Age”. This article attempts to sketch the portrait of the new architect-researcher as a knowledge worker, caught between contrasting forces of precarity of employment, budget cuts, populism, co-optation and gentrification.
Yet, perhaps because of their untimely character, Meyer’s methods and ideas have inspired generations of architects after the German master’s death, alimenting a minoritarian yet productive underground legacy of studies and recuperations.
From our present vantage point, it is uncanny to note how some of Meyer’s prophecies, once dismissed as the delirium of a Stalinist zealot, have become part of our everyday practice as architects, students or educators. Ironically, this did not happen as a consequence of the end of the capitalist economy as Meyer wanted, but as a product of its most advanced developments.
How can Meyer’s attitude towards his times help us in constructing an ethics for architecture in the age of its demise?
The didactic and professional engagement of Swiss architect Hannes Meyer between the years of his appointment as the director of the Bauhaus and his Soviet experience, is taken as an example of this third concept of autonomy. Meyer was conscious of the fact that architecture was at that time conditioned by industry under a capitalistic organization. Rather than resorting to an idea of original purity of an allegedly “revolutionary” architecture, Meyer saw the seeds of liberation in compromising architecture with industry even more. According to Meyer, Architecture is not enough overdetermined by industry, its tools are not yet enough standardized. Capital is the force that impedes this process, not the one that produces it, and only the destruction of capitalistic command will produce a complete assimilation of architecture with industry and life. In this process, the intellectual labour of the architect will become undistinguished from the manual labour of the construction worker: the liberated architect is a proletarized architect.
Meyer’s analysis, rather than the prophecy of a zealous communist fanatic, sounds today a lucid and bitter analysis of today’s conditions for architects, who have to face the reality of temporary contracts, low wages and unpaid internship, often with the threat of a study debt to be paid back. Architects have really become proletarians, but against their will. Besides that, architecture has lost its disciplinary foundations: fundamental design choices are today completely overdetermined by technical and financial parameters. The design process is reduced to a pure mechanism of governance, and its procedures are automatized by standardized digital tools such as BIM.
But at the same time architectural practice has never been so collectivized as it is today. The “death of the author” and the procedures of mechanical writing, once fantasized by a small group of avantgarde artists, are now the everyday reality of architectural production. Can we think of a new project of autonomy to isolate and liberate the positive tendencies which are latent in the contemporary modes of production of architecture?"
dimension of the city, attempting a definition of historical time in architectural design, beyond historicism and its political instrumentality.
In the dedicatory letter of The Prince, Niccolò Machiavelli employs the tool of linear perspective: to know himself, the prince has to look at himself from the point of view of the common man. But this method is not only a heuristic device for the knowledge of power, but also the key for its conquest and management. The Prince has to ally with the multitude, because the multitude, not yet tamed as a well-ordered people, preserves the right to enforce the common good of the state through violence.
Architecture is always a product of the ruling classes, and its emergence as an autonomous, abstract knowledge parallels the necessity to order the rise of the modern state, to give form to what will become its public space. But in the Renaissance this space is far to be realized, and architecture is caught between an unresolved tension between a power in constant redefinition and the tumultuous multitude in the process of organizing itself as a political force. The emergence of Brunelleschi's, Alberti's and Palladio's architectural systems will be seen as informed by this confrontation, in the necessity to strengthen an alliance with the innovative forces of the common, but also as an attempt to tame its revolutionary impulses.
Typology, in its first and third historical occurrences, will be seen in its contradictory relation towards the common.
In the eighteenth century typology provides the solution to the anxiety caused by the discovery of the arbitrariness of our understanding of formal beauty. Typology substitutes the authority of the ancients as a veritable basis for the choice of architectural forms. Typology, as a catalogue of forms agreed upon and the rules of their composition, is the architectural social contract providing the necessary institutional framework for the production of architecture.
Parallel to typology–the catalogue of regular, admissible forms–the eighteenth century seems obsessed by monsters. Monsters are those forms which exceed the table, that cannot be comprehended and explained by it. Monsters destroy and invalidate typology. Yet, monsters can be (temporarily) tamed, and provide the basis for the construction of new institutions on the ashes of the old ones.
Introducing typology as an antidote against the Italian bureaucratic town planning of the post-war years, Rossi cautioned architects against reducing typology to another set of rules and procedures. On the contrary, Aldo Rossi is interested in showing how the mechanical reproduction of found architectural forms can produce monuments, ie. emergent properties that escape the codified order of power and produce difference as the main constituent of the city. In this sense, his unfinished project The Analogous City can be seen as an attempt to elaborate a science of the unpredictable genesis of urban individuality out of determined architectural materials.
Piranesi's refusal of the Vitruvian’s grammar of orders on the one hand, and his aversion toward the ‘rationalistic’ approach of the French architectes philosophes on the other hand, allows him to define architecture in a original way in respect to his contemporaries. Far from being driven by mere imagination or sentiment, Piranesi appropriates the most advanced technical and scientific knowledge of his time in order to push it to its extreme consequences of revealing the absence of meaning and structures for architecture. This conclusion doesn’t end up in a nihilistic paralysis: on the contrary, the plan of Campo Marzio is a non-utopian manifesto of a radically different program for the city.
In his series of houses, Peter Eisenman’s, through a hyper-analytic, at times pedantic method, progressively dissolves all the pillars of architecture: function, the meaning of architectural signs, the socially accepted conventions of use, the architect as author, and eventually, contradicting his own first hypothesis, the possibility of a transcendent ‘deep structure’ of architecture itself, and the innate capacity of humans to read it.
For bot Piranesi and Eisenman, the removal of rules, signification and subjectivity have a constituent purpose: the construction of architecture as a choral narration, a free indirect discourse."
CPCL Vol 3 no 1, edited by Annalisa Trentin, Anna Rosellini and Amir Djalali, invites contribution exploring the "curatorial turn" in architecture and urbanism. How are artistic and curatorial practices changing the way in which the city is made today?
Deadline for full paper submission: 15 December 2019
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