In the latest scenographic set for Prada’s fashion collections, AMO have created a set “conceived as a stratification of architectures” – Total Space. Remnants from previous shows sit around the periphery of the room creating a foundation and aesthetic background for the house’s 2017 Spring/Summer collection. A linear structure, which sits centrally and divides the room, is designed to “amplify its perceived proportions.”
According to the designers, “a straight ramp, between the inserted ceiling and floor, serves as catwalk, while tribunes are arranged along the perimeter to accommodate the guests.” A continuous metallic surface folds around all the elements of the set in order to generate an abstract layer, composed of meshes with different patterns and dimensions that overlap to recreate a total space.
“The transparency of the cladding material unveils the underlying framework with Cartesian precision. The psychedelic glow that spreads throughout the space dematerializes all the surfaces, coloring the room, now reminiscent of a post-human scenario. The models walk in the center at a controlled distance from the audience, virtually levitating in the space. They ascend onto the elongated slope of the ramp incessantly, disappearing towards the vanishing point.”
Meet the mind behind this summer’s ICEBERGS installation. Landscape architecture and urban design firm James Corner Field Operations believes that a vibrant and dynamic public realm is informed by the interactive ecology between people and nature. Founder and director James Corner presents the firm’s recent work, and recounts how they conceived of an enormous glacial seascape in the Great Hall.
From the architect. 68 Claremont is a 6000 sqft warehouse conversion in downtown Toronto. The former sewing floor is now home to Free Space, a multi-use platform for video and photo production, events, co-working and gallery space.
The conversion had to make use of the existing floor plan while creating new partitions for the gallery, offices, photo studio and editing suites. The program uses a drapery track system to maintain a flexible floor plan that responds to different scenarios. An open floor plan is intended to leave the natural light unobstructed in order to shoot around the entire studio.
Materials included are raw pine, douglas fir plywood and galvanized steel. The material choices follow a temporal approach to the conversion, using affordable ready-made materials to craft custom furniture and millwork solutions.
The floor is divided between an exposed subfloor and plywood covering to denote drop-in and fixed workspace. The space is also host to the Canon Creator Lab, an event space for Canon Cameras.
The Brutalist high-rises in Ben Wheatley’s new film were inspired in part by Ernö Goldfinger’s Trellick and Balfron towers in London. Image Courtesy of Magnolia Pictures
For architects, if I may generalize an entire professional community, there are few novelists as cultishly beloved as J.G. Ballard. Borges or Calvino have their fair share of admirers, but to borrow an adjective more frequently applied to buildings, Ballard is the most iconic of literary figures—especially for readers of a concrete-expansion-joint persuasion. Witnessing war as a child, training in medicine, and thereafter writing from a rather bloodless middle-class patch of suburbia, Ballard spun tales of urban life that continue to be uncomfortably visceral.
High-Rise was published in 1975, against the backdrop of a Britain stumbling into economic crisis. Ballard’s chilling prose won’t be re-created here, but in considering the new film adaptation directed by Ben Wheatley, the original context is worth revisiting. High-Rise was published after the luster of postwar reconstruction and the welfare state had faded: Any remaining optimism took hard knocks through oil shocks, industrial strikes, and food shortages. Modernism was declared dead just as it had finally been seized upon. Innovative visions for mass housing—Efficient! Prefabricated! Modular!—were value-engineered and mismanaged beyond all recognition, leading to the execrable physical and social conditions of many hastily constructed tower blocks and estates across the land. The net effect was a mistrust of the architecture itself: This way of living hadn’t worked. Alice Coleman’s highly influential book Utopia on Trial roundly undermined large-scale housing experiments, finding that changing social factors had not been considered in the land use, design, or layout of schemes such as Thamesmead, Roehampton, or Robin Hood Gardens.
Ernö Goldfinger’s celebrated Trellick and Balfron tower blocks loom large over Ballard’s contemporaneous book—and also over the film. The internal walkways and mesmerizing, pick-hammered concrete in Wheatley’s High-Rise bear a striking resemblance to Goldfinger’s London landmarks, once hated, now covetable in the extreme. That’s where the similarity ends: In the film, fictional architect Anthony Royal’s high-end experiment is a willfully ungainly “hand” of crooked digits, each tower a top-heavy finger of farcical proportions. The superficial fetishizing of Brutalism is at play here, just as it is in the film poster’s conspicuous wink toA Clockwork Orange. Jeremy Irons cuts a louche if rather pathetic figure as Royal, but it is protagonist Robert Laing, played by Tom Hiddleston, who acts as a barometric register of the effects of high-rise living. We join him just as he moves into the tower, shortly before he meets and carnally greets his cynical neighbor Charlotte, as whom Sienna Miller is appropriately cast. Events take us through various states of decay: of family structures, friendship groups, human values, personal egos, finally the psychological grip of Laing himself. Hiddleston’s own pale, faraway stare is good at conveying both required attitudes of the confused conscience and numb nihilism.
For lovers of the book, there are the trials of any cinematic translation of a powerful novel. The sinister unheimlich has been replaced by a ramped-up orgiastic hell, the compression of a human journey to madness and back into 119 minutes of Technicolor screen time demanding a dramatic intensity. Ballard’s book is a quick one, but a reader can always pace it out, mull over a phrase while the image refuses to congeal; the immediate richness of film does not permit this mysterious, all-too-glyphic alchemy.
Take Royal’s stricken, bored, and delusional wife, Ann, played by Keeley Hawes, who throws super selective soirees in the architect’s capacious and fantastical penthouse. These scenes are transmogrified into a grotesque Louis XV ball, in contrast to power outages and restricted amenities for the lower floors—amping up, or rather camping up, the levels of callous luxury in the face of human degradation and squalor. Let them eat cake, to mix historical references. This exaggerated theatricality—arguably necessary when bringing print to celluloid or its digital equivalents—is the main jarring note for the more purist keepers of the page. In place of the novel’s ineluctably humdrum horror, Wheatley indulges in achingly perfect costumery, baroque slow motion, mannered montages, and lurid attempts at re-creating the “surreal” side effects of chemical or sexual experiences. The director, stretching his limbs with the most generous budget he has known, matches Ballard’s clinical detachment with an overblown “cinematic” quality to image making. (Personally, I also found the music to be a little hammy, but for others, the end-times melancholy of Portishead covering ABBA’s “SOS” was so apt as to be sublime.)
Ballard’s novel features one filmmaker, eventually compelled to document the degradation of the world around him on a Super 8, heralding the compulsive digitizing and social sharing of all moments. There is a definite claustrophobia in being continuously monitored by one’s neighbors, as in the physical spaces of High-Rise—yet even this scrutiny is not as dehumanizing as being referred to as a door number (as the inhabitants of the building are), itself visible only when the door is shut. When Elisabeth Moss’s doleful Helen thanks Laing for an overdue, if cheesy and short, dose of sexual satisfaction, saying, “You are the best amenity in the building,” her pitiable emphasis is tragically placed not on the carnal best, but rather on you: the flesh-and-blood human, the only adult to whom Helen feels any real connection.
Ballard famously said that he was interested only in the next five minutes, and High-Rise is set in the time of its publication—a period of profound disillusionment with the preceding Labour government and with the postwar romance of ambitious public spending. A few lean years later, Margaret Thatcher enjoyed her first victory in the 1979 general elections; the early ’80s saw the rise of corporate culture, the primacy of the individual, and the competition of private capital as the foremost drivers of social change. There was no alternative, Thatcher affirmed, to the triumph of neoliberal free markets over a mutually responsible communal fabric. (Rest her soul, the Iron Lady also quipped, “There is no such thing as society.”) In terms of the viability of British manufacturing, it was a particular slap in the face to note the growth of German competitiveness since the war, notwithstanding the Berlin Wall, perhaps the only architectural element of social division more potent than the stratified tower.
The one idea espoused by the Thatcher government was that of property, of the importance of private home ownership, and the abdication of the state in taking responsibility for the housing of its people. Between 1965 and 1970, 1.3 million new homes were built under Harold Wilson’s Labour government, and state-provided, or “council,” housing accounted for almost a third of all British homes in the mid-1970s. Under Thatcher, thousands upon thousands of these state-owned homes were rapidly released to private buyers, floating ever higher out of reach on the free (read: ridiculously overheated) market.
Despite the decision to keep the story set in 1975, the timeliness of Wheatley’s film is as impressive as Ballard’s prescience. Then as now, a certain malaise has succeeded a wave of technological optimism. (Wasn’t the internet supposed to fix everything?) An interesting question arises from this present perspective: Is such an environment conceivable today, when technology would surely spread the word and bring relief to the victims of Royal’s failed project? So enthused are we by the capacity to share experience through media that if—indeed when—such carnage occurs today, we make a spectacle of it just as the film does. Then there is the parallel of austerity. In the early ’70s, belts were tightened severely as inflation soared well above 20 percent; in 2013, current prime minister David Cameron reprised Thatcher while ushering in a new economic policy of public thrift, saying, “If there was another way, I would take it. But there is no alternative.” Lastly, Britain faces a crisis in housing even as its property market is the playground of the super-rich. The intense contradictions of contemporary urban life force us to face contingencies, sometimes uncomfortable ones—not least in questioning what we have access to, what we really own, and how high a price we’re prepared to pay for the right to live as we think we should.
Having grown up in a high-rise myself, in polarized postcolonial Kolkata, and then in the repressed suburban bucolism of the English Peak District, I would offer this: The problem isn’t the building, or even the misguided intentions of the all-seeing architect. It’s with people and with how we arrange ourselves to live together. The high-rise gives visibility, in a crude graphic sense, to societal hierarchies and subsequent tribalism—those who “rise” to the top or find themselves trapped in the underbelly. Building height has long been blamed for making apparent those stratifications of culture, class, and, of course, wealth; ever since Babel, vertical aspirations have been emblematic of the poison of social ambition. Progress seems to be measured in the vertiginous skylines of aspiring and established cities alike, even as they symbolize growing inequality among the citizens thereof. But can we really point to the needle tower itself or even to the architect who imagines it? The cultural and systemic conditions that privilege personal gain over use or need, that enable “poor doors” and precarious futures—isn’t it these larger structures, rather than even the most brutal of concrete impositions, that torment the psyches of both inhabitants and onlookers?
Wheatley’s High-Rise is stylish beyond question: sybaritic, darkly funny, and quite beautiful for all that. It lacks the grit of the original, but it is unabashedly a fanboy’s paean. Reflecting on the parallels between then and now, it is perhaps to Wheatley’s credit that he has kept the film so slavishly in period when he could have so easily transposed it to the present day. Because in his overblown, phantasmagoric treatment, there’s just enough Gaussian blur to allow us to enjoy the spectacle and stave off the horror of recognizing ourselves.
Can’t get enough of High Rise? Read another review on Metropolis by Zach Mortice, here.
The Center for Character & Leadership Development (CCLD) will serve as an education and research center, supporting the Air Force Academy’s mission to integrate character and leadership development into all aspects of the Cadet experience while also serving as a think tank for leadership and character development initiatives nationwide.
The CCLD also represents an important and symbolic addition to the Academy’s campus, which SOM designed in 1954, and was designated a National Historic Landmark District in 2004. As the first building constructed in the Cadet Area since the 1990s, the CCLD creates an architectural focal point for the campus, and serves as a counterpoint to the Academy’s iconic Cadet Chapel.
“Character and leadership development is the essence of the Air Force Academy’s mission and is interwoven into every aspect of the Academy experience,” says Lt. Gen. Michelle Johnson, Superintendent of the U.S. Air Force Academy. “This iconic structure represents our bold vision to become the premier venue for the integrated study and development of character and leadership.”
The 46,000-square-foot building is located at a critical meeting point between the cadet and public areas of the campus. The building serves as a nexus, with spaces dedicated to cadets, professors, distinguished visitors and the public. It contains the Forum, a flexible gathering space for academic and social interaction; a series of collaboration, conference, and seminar rooms; o ces; library; and the Honor Board Room, where inquiries related to the Cadet Honor Code take place.
“Our design for the CCLD creates a distinct and contemporary icon for the U.S. Air Force Academy, while also deferring to the discipline and rigor of the original campus plan,” states Roger Du y, Design Partner at SOM. “We were honored to have this opportunity to revisit one of our most important projects, and to make a 21st-century contribution at the heart of the campus.”
The CCLD features a dramatic 105-foot skylight, a design element that establishes a bold presence on the campus, while bringing ample natural light into the building. This glass-enclosed structure aligns precisely with the North Star, which signifies the Academy’s guiding values. By aligning this new center for community and collaboration under the North Star, SOM’s design creates a meaningful architectural interpretation of the Academy’s aspirations.
With its complete integration of architecture and structural engineering, dynamic nature of its form, and machine-like precision,the skylight is fluid yet disciplined.
The structure of the skylight consists of diagonal steel plates composed in a triangular grid and precisely calibrated to resist the lateral forces due to wind loading. The Architecturally Exposed Structural Steel (AESS) is devoid of all embellishment or ornamentation, and its sleek connections are cohesive with the aesthetics of the structure.
At the center of the building, the Forum’s terraced levels will accommodate gatherings at a variety of scales and levels of formality. Glass- walled collaboration rooms surround the Forum, offering meeting spaces that emphasize the quality of transparency that is central to the building’s design.
Symbolically placed at the building’s heart, the Honor Board Room features a conference table situated beneath a glass aperture that opens onto the larger skylight above. A cadet seated at the table will be precisely aligned with the North Star. The interior of the Honor Board Room is kept deliberately simple, with walls, floor and ceiling clad in maple, to emphasize the table illuminated at the center of the room.
Designed to meet LEED® Silver certification from the U.S. Green Building Council, the CCLD will set a new standard for green technology and building practices on the U.S. Air Force Academy campus. To meet this sustainability goal, and to potentially obtain LEED® Gold certification, SOM developed integrated building systems that influence all aspects of the building’s design, construction, and operation. The CCLD features an energy efficient approach to climate control that utilizes high-efficiency air handling units, displacement ventilation, radiant heating and cooling, and a solar chimney effect within the skylight structure that expels heated air. In addition to the ample natural light provided by the skylight structure, the building’s classrooms, meeting rooms, and o ces are situated around two adjacent courtyards to minimize the use of artificial lighting.
A team of engineers at Autodesk have been pushing the limitations of conventional 3D printing — not by redesigning the machines themselves, but by creating a network to harness their collective power. Autodesk’s “Project Escher” is a new printing system that utilizes the power of several 3D printers at once to fabricate complex parts in unison, reports FastCoDesign. The new system can increase production speed by up to 90%.
While the benefits of 3D printing are undeniable, its lengthy process has impeded it from being rolled out in large-scale additive manufacturing. Designers in industries such as automotive, aerospace and construction want to utilize the power of 3D printing to form complex geometries, but as the printing is measured in weight per hour, large objects can take impossibly long amounts of time.
Project Escher uses a gantry system with suspended 3D printing “bots,” selectively assigning a part of the model to each, producing a fully assembled final object. Autodesk’s hardware lead for the project, Corey Bloome, told FastCoDesign that there are no limits to the amount of printing bots you can have in the gantry, and the speed will increase with each bot added.
As the design currently stands, this system uses only 3D printers, but Bloome said that in theory robotic arms could be added to the gantry, allowing other elements to be embedded in the final assembly. This means that complex objects, such as cars, have the possibility of being “printed” in one sitting.
Autodesk is still developing Project Escher in house, with the vision to start enlisting companies to experiment with their own processes in the near future. For more information, check out Autodesk’s video above, or the Project Escher website.
As part of ArchDaily’s coverage of the 2016 Venice Biennale, we are presenting a series of articles written by the curators of the exhibitions and installations on show. The following text represents the curatorial statement for the exhibition of the inaugural Baltic Pavilion.
There are transformative efforts at play which are reprogramming an inert region beyond the delineations of separate nation-states. The Baltic Pavilion intends to explore the built environment of the Baltic States as a shared space of ideas. This exhibition and a series of related events presents a cross-section of Baltic space. In light of the Anthropocene, a new geological epoch, the developments in this region will unfold as a non-linear stratigraphy.
Recent geopolitical developments around the Baltic States have created a sense of urgency for new spatial practices to be initiated, that both unite the region and underpin the foundations of the European Union. New infrastructural connections in the Baltic Sea, FSRU Independence, the natural gas storage ship in Klaipėda, and Rail Baltica, the pan-Baltic railway project are among the many examples of this new kind of architecture. The Baltic Pavilion attempts to unravel the conventions and instruments operated by a wide range of spatial practices, industries, and infrastructures that are actively transforming the built space of the three Baltic States, and the wider region. Without making distinction between abstract ideas and their material projections, the exhibition seeks to distill parameters and thought structures, to enable the formulation of a range of spatial interventions which aim to reconfigure the inert built environment of the Baltics.
Some elements of this built environment are too inert to be completely reorganised instantaneously—infrastructures, cities, and transport links are currently in a state of function, and so demand simultaneously specific practices to maintain their stability. At the same time, these structures also determine future possibilities. The Baltic Pavilion is interested in an ecology of practices that inscribe new policies onto existing material assemblies through procedures such as addition, transition, translation, integration, and assimilation—making use of what is already at work.
Realia can be understood as a particular material object or idea—linguists use the term to highlight structures that cannot be translated from one language to another. The intersection between power structures, ideologies, and resistances on one side, and the assembly of things on the other, results in realias as authentic responses to specific material parameters. This project proposes a reading of spatial interventions as realia—formed in relation to a place.
The common denominator for the international team working on the Baltic Pavilion is a specific relationship to the Baltic region as a starting point for inquiry—it is an attempt to re-articulate architecture while responding to the logic of a particular place. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania share common processes of the political, economic, cultural and infrastructural transformations – from the central planning of the Soviet Union to the current governmentality of the EU. Perhaps the phenomena of the shifting definition of the Baltic countries is a double fold—from the outside it is addressed as one region whilst on the inside it is often understood as three separate quests for identity. Thus, this project is an attempt to link contrasting concepts while analysing the conditions for integrity of the Baltic States through relation to a wider context.
The project takes a geological approach—it reads the things that compose this flat landscape as a stack of stratigraphic layers. Man-made space is understood as a sedimentary process and its infrastructures, as well as its mineral resources, are assessed as the key parameters that will define a development. This project functions as an intertwined cross-section cut through the current entanglement of identities, spatial practices, infrastructures, and geological resources.
The exhibition presents a horizon of artifacts—a field that can be observed as a version of what is at work—an image of realias and their links. The different exhibition passages each propose a structured reading of artifacts while at the same time opening up new interpretations. Multiple representations of realias are structured by way of a gradient from subjective, artistic images to operative images.
The horizon of artifacts cannot be observed in its entirety—a special installation interferes and obstructs its field of vision. A piece of lightweight, translucent, levitating 2000 square meter fabric restructures the hull of the Palasport to articulate relations between exhibits, visually fragmenting the space. The fabric plateau has special openings, creating a range of layered cavities. It functions as an optical device, allowing visitors to see the Palasport itself in a way that serves to highlight the ethical dimension of its architectural form. This fabric installation does not interfere with the surfaces or structures of the building’s concrete interior, rather, it is suspended and locked at select points a couple of meters above the ground, and is designed so that it can be lifted to accommodate a girls gymnastics competition in June, as well as other activities run by local Venetians during the summer months.
On June 11th, the European Biennial of Contemporary Art, also known as Manifesta, began its 100-day stint in this edition’s host city, Zurich, Switzerland. The festival’s center-piece is a timber raft floating on Lake Zurich, known as the Pavilion of Reflections. The temporary structure was designed and realized by Studio Tom Emerson and a team of thirty students from ETH Zurich. Constructed primarily of timber, Christian Jankowski, curator of Manifesta 11, describes the exhibit “as a floating multi-functional platform with a giant LED screen, a stand for spectators, a swimming pool and a bar.”
The pavilion’s varied program responds to the biennial’s founding desire “to explore the psychological and geographical territory of Europe and to provide a dynamic for cultural exchange throughout the region.” Seeking to represent the social dynamics of the host city, Zurich, the design team took note of the city’s significant bathing culture.
With a history tracing back to Roman settlements, Zurich has the highest density of public swimming areas in the world. But these badis, as they are called locally, also act as social spaces and appear as architectural icons in the city. The Pavilion of Reflections is imagined to be a casual meeting place and a public, open-air swimming area in the daytime. At night it serves as a venue for film screenings, showcasing work from students at Zurich University of the Arts.
Collaborators: Bernardo Falcão de Azevedo, Tiago Rebelo de Andrade, Pedro Dias, Pedro Duarte Silva, Joana Varajão, Raquel Jorge e Madalena Rebelo de Andrade
Longroiva’s Hotel & Thermal Spa is locatedin the county of Mêda, northeast Portugal, next to Longroiva’s Thermal Spa. Longroiva’s Thermal Baths go back to the roman occupation and, since then, are recognized by their symbolic and therapeutic value. The old building of the Thermal Spa, which is dates back to the late XIX century, was rehabilitated to house 17 rooms on the upper floors, and social areas on the ground floor.
This building is connected to the new volumes through a walking path, which connects the upper floor of the old building to the new modules of rooms. Each of the 5 room modules is implanted according to the slope, providing gathering areas in between them, which are filled with light and face the landscape from different points of view.
These volumes flow into the swimming pool area, which bridges the new hotel unit and the existing thermal spa. Above the level of the rooms, there are service areas and 10 bungalows, divided into 2 groups, separated by a stone mass. This hotel unit articulates, modernity and tradition, natural and built environment. This strong visual relationship with the landscape is also present in the careful choice of materials and colors, invoking the vegetation of the area and the local building materials.
The Palace of Westminster as seen from the River Thames. Image Courtesy of Flickr user Alex Brown
At 6:20pm on the evening of October 16, 1834, a fire began in the old Palace of Westminster in London – the foremost seat of parliamentary governance for both the United Kingdom and the British Empire across the seas. The inferno, which burned until the early hours of the morning, destroyed so much of the medieval complex that neither restoration nor preservation were considered viable options – a new palace would have to rise from the ashes to surround the largely undamaged Westminster Hall.[1] The fire gave the United Kingdom a chance not only to replace what was considered as an outdated, patchwork of government buildings, but to erect a Gothic Revival landmark to spiritually embody the pre-eminence of the United Kingdom across the world, and the roots of modern democracy.
Courtesy of Country Life Books
From the late 11th century until the reign of Henry VIII, the Palace of Westminster served as a royal residence. Various monarchs of England and the subsequent United Kingdom (England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland) made their own additions and renovations to the palace as the centuries passed. The Great Hall of the palace, now known as Westminster Hall, was completed in 1099 by William II; Richard II would later remodel the space, removing the Norman columns that supported the roof and replacing them with a “hammerbeam” wooden roof that remains in place to this day. After Henry VIII moved the royal residence away from Westminster in 1534, the palace transitioned to use by the British Parliament.[2]
The 1830s and 1840s proved a tumultuous time for the United Kingdom: mainland Europe was awash with revolutions, famine struck both Britain and Ireland, and political upheaval was changing the landscape of British government. When the House of Commons (the elected body of the government) launched a design competition for the new Palace of Westminster, they specified that entries must be in either Neo-Gothic or Neo-Elizabethan styles – a symbolic gesture that would connect the new building to the order, stability, and prowess of the nation’s past.[3]
Plan. Image Courtesy of Yale University Press, Ltd.
A rectangular site, measuring roughly 800 by 350 feet (244 by 107 meters) along the bank of the Thames River, was laid out for the competitors.. Alongside preserving Westminster Hall, architects were required to provide chambers for both the House of Lords and the House of Commons, a variety of offices, and accommodations for officials who needed to be on call at all times.[4] Out of the 97 entries submitted, the parliamentary committee awarded the first prize to Charles Barry – architect of numerous churches, country houses (including Highclere Castle, of Downton Abbey fame), and civic buildings.[5]
Drawing of the 'Estimates' design for the House of Lords by Pugin. ImageCourtesy of Yale University Press
Although Barry’s initial proposal, with drawings by Augustus Pugin, made a large enough impression to win him the competition, it was only selected with the caveat that it required significant revision. Over the next several years, the building evolved substantially in both plan and elevation: the two parliament chambers moved to accommodate a new octagonal central hall, sections of the building were realigned, and the two towers grew taller, with the northern one becoming a clock tower (now housing the bell, Big Ben). In this process, what had originally been a comparatively economical proposal became increasingly extravagant, drawing ire from the people against both Parliament and Barry.[6]
Elevation. Image Courtesy of Merrell Publishers Limited
The foundation stone for the Palace was laid on April 27, 1840 by Sarah Barry, Charles Barry’s wife. From that moment, 775,000 cubic feet of stone were shipped in and assembled into a palace comprising 1,180 rooms, two miles of corridors, and 126 staircases.[7] The chosen stone was a sandy limestone from Anston Quarry in Yorkshire and, while the material was comparatively cheap and suited to intricate carving, it proved ineffective at withstanding the coal pollution for which industrial London was notorious and ultimately had to be replaced between 1928 and 1960.[8]
Elevation, Plan, Section. Image Courtesy of Merrell Publishers Limited
The final, built incarnation of the new Palace of Westminster featured a full 914 feet of horizontal frontage along the River Thames, punctuated by raised turrets and the three main towers that dominate the complex.[9] Victoria Tower, the tallest and largest of the three, was built to crown the Sovereign’s Entrance (as, according to tradition, the Monarch may never tread near the House of Commons) and to house Parliament records. The Central Tower, which was built for ventilation, takes the form of a spire, visually contrasting it with the towers at either end of the Palace. The clock tower, very recently named Elizabeth Tower in homage to Queen Elizabeth II, yet commonly known as Big Ben, presented a challenge to Barry who struggled to produce a design that made the clock itself sufficiently prominent. The ultimate solution was to project the clock story out from the sides of the tower; the four clock faces themselves were designed by Pugin. [10,11]
Elizabeth Tower (also known as "Big Ben" for the bell within). Image Courtesy of Flickr user Eric Huybrechts
Delays and conflicts plagued Barry throughout the project. Both Houses of Parliament constantly scrutinized the architect, requiring him to justify revisions before numerous committees, explain why construction was taking so long, and generally interfering in the design process. A particular frustration was Parliament’s insistence that Barry work with Doctor David Boswell Reid, a Scottish scientist of dubious credibility whose schemes for ventilation took up vast swathes of interior space and greatly increased the flammability of the Palace. The House of Commons rejected its chamber almost immediately after its completion in 1850, criticizing the acoustics and layout of the space and forcing Barry to radically alter it. Such delays were blamed solely on Barry, despite that he had faithfully followed Parliament’s instructions. Rumors swirled as to whether the architect would resign from the project; instead, he passed away in 1860, leaving the remaining work to be completed by his son.[12]
The original, unsatisfactory design for the House of Commons. ImageCourtesy of Yale University Press
The revised form of the House of Commons, February 1852. ImageCourtesy of Yale University Press
The new Palace of Westminster was finally completed in 1867, 33 years after fire had consumed its medieval predecessor. Its Gothic splendor, while recalling the the continuity of the past, became a potent symbol of a changing nation; when revolutions overturned much of Europe, the United Kingdom’s parliamentary reforms defused the worst of the upheaval in the British Isles.[13] The monumental new Houses of Parliament, while garbed in an interpretation of time gone by, stood as a prominent icon of a newer, more democratic order – one that has survived both the ravages of time and the Blitz of the Second World War to remain one of London’s most iconic architectural landmarks.
House of Commons. Image Courtesy of Burton Skira, Inc.
References [1] Cooke, Robert, Sir. The Palace of Westminster: Houses of Parliament. New York, NY: Burton Skira, 1987. p69-75. [2] Montague-Smith, Patrick W., and Hugh Montgomery-Massingberd. The Country Life Book of Royal Palaces, Castles & Homes: Including Vanished Palaces and Historic Houses with Royal Connections. London: Country Life Books, 1981. p65-68. [3] Cannadine, David. The Houses of Parliament: History, Art and Architecture. London: Merrell, 2000. p13-15. [4] Port, M. H. The Houses of Parliament. New Haven: Published for the Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art (London) by Yale University Press, 1976. p32-33. [5] Port, p41. [6] Cooke, p98. [7] Jones, Christopher. The Great Palace: The Story of Parliament. London: British Broadcasting, 1983. p101. [8] “The Stonework.” UK Parliament. Accessed June 14, 2016. [access]. [9] Cowan, Henry J., and Trevor Howells. A Guide to the World’s Greatest Buildings: Masterpieces of Architecture & Engineering. San Francisco: Fog City Press, 2000. p102. [10] Cannadine, p131. [11] “The Towers of Parliament.” UK Parliament. Accessed June 14, 2016. [access]. [12] Jones, p103-107. [13] Cowan and Howells, p103.
Photographs: Courtesy of Flickr user Alex Brown, Courtesy of Merrell Publishers Limited, Courtesy of Yale University Press, Ltd., Courtesy of Flickr user David McKelvey, Courtesy of Burton Skira, Inc., Courtesy of Flickr user Karoly Lorentey, Courtesy of Flickr user Eric Huybrechts, Courtesy of Flickr user Martin Pettitt, Courtesy of Country Life Books
Sig Nordal 