Category: BLDGBLOG

[Images: Casa Kike by Gianni Botsford Architects, photographed by Christian Richters].

Reestablishing myself here on a desktop computer that had been sitting inside a storage unit for the past 15 months, I’ve been having a good time going through old bookmarks: rediscovering what I saved way back in 2008 and 2009, and seeing whether or not I’m still interested in the stories. Articles about mining the ocean floor, about the state of California selling landmarks to raise cash, and about design competitions that came and went sit beside pages for various architecture offices and now-outdated technology reviews.

Among these old links, though, is a house I still absolutely adore, one that many of you will probably have already seen on other blogs, but is still worth posting: the Casa Kike, a private residence in Costa Rica by Gianni Botsford Architects, seen here in photographs by Christian Richters.

[Image: Casa Kike by Gianni Botsford Architects, photographed by Christian Richters].

The house is an “intimate double pavilion for a writer in Costa Rica,” with a budget that topped out at just over $100,000. From the architect’s own description:

A main studio space, with library, writing desk and grand piano, is the writer’s daytime space. The pavilion’s wooden structure, sourced from local timber, sits on a simple foundation of wooden stilts on small concrete pad foundations. Roof beams of up to 10 m long and 355 mm deep allow for an interior with no vertical columns. The mono-pitched roof elevates towards the sea shore, while the interior is through ventilated via a completely louvred glazed end façade.

There is then a second pavilion: “set at a short distance along a raised walkway,” we read, it “contains sleeping quarters and a bathroom.”

[Images: Casa Kike by Gianni Botsford Architects, photographed by Christian Richters].

I’m basically just posting these images without comment—other than to say it’s a gorgeous project, and I’m glad I rediscovered it in my bookmarks from 2008.

[Image: Sellafield; photo courtesy of Wikimedia/Visit Cumbria].

For some reason I woke up this morning thinking of a story from nearly two years ago: that LLWR, new owners of the English nuclear facility at Sellafield, had arrived at their new property to find so little paperwork about where nuclear waste had been stored—and by whom, and how—that they had to put an ad in the local newspaper asking if anyone else remembered where the nuclear waste was dumped.

“We need your help,” the ad began.

Did you work at Sellafield in the 1960s, 1970s or 1980s? Were you by chance in the job of disposing of radioactive material? If so, the owners of Britain’s nuclear waste dump would very much like to hear from you: they want you to tell them what you dumped—and where you put it.

In turn, having just moved back to LA last week, I’ve been thinking of a story from this past spring, when part of the the Los Angeles neighborhood of Carson was discovered to be built above a 50-acre sea of contaminated soil. “In March,” the Los Angeles Times reported at the time, “the water quality board told residents not to eat fruit or vegetables grown in their backyards. Shell Oil Co., which once stored millions of gallons of crude oil in giant tanks where the houses now stand, sent letters to more than 20 homeowners recommending they minimize contact with ‘exposed soil in your yard.'” In one case, a local resident—and avid gardener—”watched investigators pull dark, wet soil from her backyard that smelled like oil.”

[Image: A circulation diagram of the underground nuclear waste repository at Onkalo, Finland, from Containing Uncertainty by smudge studio, exhibited as part of Landscapes of Quarantine at New York’s Storefront for Art and Architecture. “Deep geologic repositories are difficult spaces to imagine,” the artists write. “They exist below us, hundreds of feet into the earth. Their spaces are not easily accessed by the public, if at all. The most challenging thing to imagine about a deep geologic repository is invisible to human eyes: its relationship to geologic time.”].

Dealing with the toxic after-effects of an earlier industry—or an earlier civilization altogether—especially if that contaminated geography remains insufficiently marked, is also the topic of a remarkable film released last spring by director Michael Madsen. Called Into Eternity, that film explores the philosophical and technical challenges involved with safely storing nuclear waste underground for a minimum period of 100,000 years. As Madsen explained to NPR, however, in slightly broken English:

100,000 years from now would most likely, in my mind, also mean another kind of human beings. It’s perhaps 100,000 years that we left Africa, the human, the Homo sapiens species; 40,000 years ago in Europe there were Neanderthals, a different kind of human species. So in 100,000 years from now, I think that we humans will be something different from today, and when you’re building something to last for that time span and to be safe under all circumstances, I thought that these people, they must have some considerations about the scenarios that might arise in the future and how to counteract upon these scenarios.

Put another way, how on earth might a transformed human inhabitant of the earth, 100,000 years from now, put out an ad in the local newspaper asking if someone whose ancestors once worked at Sellafield—or Onkalo, the repository explored by Madsen’s film, or even the coastal waters of Somalia or San Francisco—could remember if there were any life-threatening toxins buried in the ground nearby? Even if those nameless predecessors have left signs?

Or will future myths of this planet consist not of Mediterranean scenes of sun-blessed fertility—a world like none other—but lamentations of deformity and radioactive clouds, its rivers chemical weapons, its kings plagued by amnesia? Demeter replaced by Moros—forever?

[Image: The entryway to Onkalo’s moribund underworld, from Michael Madsen’s Into Eternity].

In any case, perhaps my favorite scene in Madsen’s film—or, at least, one of the most thought-provoking—comes when the engineers in charge of blasting down through the Scandinavian bedrock to create vast artificial caverns in which copper barrels of nuclear waste will be stored, joke that they sometimes half-expect to reach the proper depths required for disposal… only to dig up a collection of copper canisters buried there 100,000 years ago by a forgotten civilization, one that otherwise left no marks, no archaeology, no traces or remnants of paperwork describing its health-threatening (mis)deeds.

(Thanks to Nicola Twilley for the Sellafield link. Related: One Million Years of Isolation: An Interview with Abraham van Luik).

[Image: Photo by Jim Stephenson].

Architectural photographer Jim Stephenson got in touch the other week with some photos he recently took of an elaborate stage set, constructed by the group dreamthinkspeak, for a new play based on Anton Chekhov’s “The Cherry Orchard.”

The play was performed in Brighton, England, inside an old department store, the entirety of which had been transformed into a labyrinthine performance space, complete with a Russian supermarket, a simulated department store (within the very frame of the abandoned one), and a cottage surrounded by artificial snow.

[Images: Photos by Jim Stephenson].

There are nurseries and ballrooms, writing desks and dioramas, all stashed away inside a massive performance space through which the audience must walk, as if chasing down scenes.

[Images: Photos by Jim Stephenson].

I’ll let Stephenson himself describe the building:

The venue was the old Co-Op building on London Road, Brighton, familiar to most people who live in the city. Opened in 1931, the Co-Op was the largest department store in the city when it closed 3 years ago. It has been neglected since… A large department store, wandering around it was incredible to see how quickly it had fallen into such a bad state. It reminded me of the first few chapters of The World Without Us, where Weisman talks about the processes that would take place around, inside and on our buildings should humans disappear. Indeed, it could be a study of such processes—damp creeps in everywhere, stripping render from the basement walls and warping and tearing the plywood paneling upstairs. Plant life eases through gaps and cracks. Carpet has lifted and the building has a terrific smell of decay. Yet in the stockrooms, still evident, is graffiti from the early 70’s—name checking footballers that have long since retired, bought pubs and passed on. Locally, there has been calls, growing stronger and stronger, for the owners or the council to inhabit the building. This is where dreamthinkspeak stepped in to temporarily transform the former department store into an incredible series of set-pieces, opening up such a familiar building to a public for the first time in three years, curious to see what had happened the their local shop.

The ensuing world of the play included some interesting moments of self-reference; as Stephenson writes: “The basement of the Co-Op used to feature some beautiful leaded windows around the circulation areas and these have been re-used with elaborate models of show apartments and odd and surreal rooms placed behind the glass. Closer inspection shows that these surreal rooms are models of the rooms we’ve already passed through and (we’ll soon learn) rooms to come.”

[Image: The “leaded windows… re-used with elaborate models of show apartments and odd and surreal rooms,” photographed by Jim Stephenson].

Indeed, one of the most architecturally interesting details of the production was its use of small models that refer to, repeat, or reveal in advance spaces of the play itself. Or, as Stephenson writes, “Repetition of themes continues throughout the show, using increasingly imaginative set-pieces to remind us of where we’ve been.” It’s as if the play somehow stutters, blurting out smaller versions of itself—like an inhabitable 3D printer that can’t help but create images of its own surroundings.

In one of the images below, for instance, Stephenson writes that we see a table “covered in a forest of formerly lit candles”—and within the melted wax, “models of the couple from earlier [in the play] sit drinking tea.” It’s microcosmic self-repetition—a kind of ontological splintering in architectural form.

This takes on a somewhat mind-bending dimension when we learn that, in the fake department store (within the ruined department store…), attendees are confronted with architectural models “lent to the show by the architects Conran & Partners (so, interestingly, these models are for actual redevelopments that may someday be built).” That is, real buildings, constructed perhaps ten or more years from now, could someday be realistically interpreted as hypertrophied spatial aftereffects of this particular stage set.

[Images: Photos by Jim Stephenson].

In any case, I’ve included many of Stephenson’s photos here, documenting the experience, but there are more on his website (along with a much longer description of the space).

[Image: Photo by Jim Stephenson].

You’ll find that I’ve barely even begun to describe the set’s intricacy: there are internal CCTV networks covering the unfolding of the play, multi-lingual actors and actresses wandering through the scenes, and even a secret passageway through a department store cupboard. The final space, like the boss level of some massive new game, “is a huge room, almost an entire floor of the Co-Op,” Stephenson explains, “filled with the remains of a former orchard. A deforestation scene, with woodchips all over the floor and tree stumps left.”

[Image: Photo by Jim Stephenson].

And, with that, this particular variation on Chekhov’s “Cherry Orchard” comes to an end.

(Also check out Jim Stephenson’s straight-ahead architectural photography while you are at his site).

[Image: “Storm Clouds Over Central Park” by Joseph Bergantine].

Do urban landscapes act as attractors for storms and hurricanes? “New research shows that rough areas of land, including city buildings and naturally jagged land cover like trees and forests, can actually attract passing hurricanes,” a study claimed last week.

It works because the whole landscape acts as a kind of vortex or chimney: “Rough cityscapes and forests trap air. This compresses the air and forces it up into the atmosphere, adding energy to the storm and pulling the center of the hurricane toward the rough region. As a result, a city can cause a hurricane to swerve from its predicted path by as much as 20 miles.”

“Cities impose greater friction on the swirling flow because of the tall buildings,” said Johnny Chan, a professor of meteorology at the [City University of Hong Kong]. “Our results show that tropical cyclones tend to be ‘attracted’ towards areas of higher friction. So it is possible that cities could cause tropical cyclones to veer towards them.”

Defining cities simply as “rough areas of land,” comparable to forests or cliffsides, seems actually to underestimate the bewildering porosity, and thus the true storm potential, of urban space—with tens of thousands of rooms and corridors, offering slightly different levels of temperature and air pressure, just sitting there behind closed doors like a storm reservoir. As if every silent room around you right now, in your home, campus, or office park, leads an unacknowledged meteorological double-life: rooms and streets full of air poised just this side of thunderous disequilibrium, on the cusp of becoming a hurricane.

[Image: Hurricane Katrina approaches New Orleans—possibly attracted there, a new study suggests, by the “rough cityscape” of the greater metropolitan region].

I’m reminded of the storm-storage islands described in Greek mythology—for instance, one of my favorite architectural designs of all time, from Virgil’s Aeneid, a place called “Aeolia, the weather-breeding isle,” where all the winds of the world are stored:

Here in a vast cavern King Aeolus
Rules the contending winds and moaning gales
As warden of their prison. Round the walls
They chafe and bluster underground. The din
Makes a great mountain murmur overhead.
High on a citadel enthroned,
Scepter in hand, he molifies their fury,
Else they might flay the sea and sweep away
Land masses and deep sky through empty air.
In fear of this, Jupiter hid them away
In caverns of black night. He set above them
Granite of high mountains—and a king
Empowered at command to rein them in
Or let them go. (Book 1, 75-89)

Only here, in the 21st-century city, some rogue weather god keeps unparalleled atmospheric disturbances hidden away inside a carefully guarded urban archive of future storms, just waiting for release: proto-hurricanes saved inside sports stadiums, opera houses, suburban homes, and office towers, compressed down into sewers and alleys and discount shoe warehouse storefronts, all bodies of air prepared to become gales if the right links and cross-connections can be made. Vast ductwork cuts in and out of the city, carefully sealed off inside with valves—valves that should only be opened if you want to seed new storm systems, like a multi-county air conditioner gone absurdly out of control.

Or it’s the breezy future of street-cleaning. An alternative to fireworks on the 4th of July. A side-effect of urban planning just waiting to be weaponized. An opportunity for urban scale climatological re-engineering brought to you by Trane.

[Image: Hurricane Isabel seen from space].

We saw long ago, for instance, that “many of the skyscrapers in Shanghai could become quite dangerous” due to the high winds they’ve started to generate. Indeed, “concerns have been raised about the strong and thus damaging winds that are result[ing] from the dense population of skyscrapers so central to the metropolis.”

The city, in other words, is generating its own weather. Add this new study—with cities like New Orleans and Miami and New York literally attracting hurricanes to themselves—and the burgeoning field of urban architectural meteorology just got a lot more urgent (and interesting).

(Thanks to Tim Maly for the link!)

[Image: Detailed view of Hylozoic Ground‘s “Protocell” assembly; courtesy of Philip Beesley Architect].

Philip Beesley’s Hylozoic Ground installation opens this coming Friday at the Venice Biennale, where it is installed inside the Canadian pavilion. It is a “suspended geotextile that gradually accumulates hybrid soil from ingredients drawn from its surroundings.”

As Beesley explains, “Hylozoic Ground is an immersive, interactive environment that moves and breathes around its viewers… Next-generation artificial intelligence, synthetic biology, and interactive technology create an environment that is nearly alive.” Indeed, he adds, “hylozoism is the ancient belief that all matter has life.”

[Image: Detail from Hylozoic Ground; courtesy of Philip Beesley Architect].

Part of this artificial life comes from the “intricate lattice of small transparent acrylic meshwork links” that make up the project, as well as the “network of interactive mechanical fronds, filters and whiskers” that form its periphery. Together, these allow the installation’s edges to “arch uncannily towards those who venture into its midst, reaching out to stroke and be stroked like the feather or fur or hair of some mysterious animal.”

[Image: Detail from Hylozoic Ground; courtesy of Philip Beesley Architect].

The resulting structure is “similar to a coral reef, following cycles of opening, clamping, filtering and digesting. Arrays of touch sensors create waves of diffuse breathing motion, luring visitors into the shimmering depths of a forest of light.”

Akin to the functions of a living system, embedded machine intelligence allows human interaction to trigger breathing, caressing, and swallowing motions and hybrid metabolic exchanges. These empathic motions ripple out from hives of kinetic valves and pores in peristaltic waves, creating a diffuse pumping that pulls air, moisture and stray organic matter through the filtering Hylozoic membranes. “Living” chemical exchanges are conceived as the first stages of self-renewing functions that might take root within this architecture.

The sculpture’s “chemical exchanges” were engineered in collaboration with architect Rachel Armstrong (whose TED talk on lifting the city of Venice out of its encroaching lagoon by growing an artificial reef beneath the city is worth checking out).

[Image: Detail from Hylozoic Ground; courtesy of Philip Beesley Architect].

There is also an accompanying book coming out in time for the Biennale, and I’m excited to say that I’ve got a short essay in it; it also includes texts by Rachel Armstrong, Detlef Mertins, Neil Spiller, and many more, and it explores the various architectural, scientific, and technical implications of Beesley’s work.

Briefly, as I suggest in my own essay, Beesley’s work deserves a much wider audience than architectural Biennales. Living geotextiles that double as soil-producing landscapes—that is, they create their own biomass—these would not even be out of place in conversations about experimental agriculture and even large-scale terraforming.

If Mars, for instance, as we read earlier this week, is actually “ideally suited for crop farming,” then I can easily see how a massive, self-unfolding custom geotextile, designed by Philip Beesley, could origami itself out from a NASA landing pod and begin the generations-long process of making another planet habitable for terrestrial life (there are, of course, very clear moral and biochemical objections to the idea of spreading Earthly life beyond our planet, but I am willfully overlooking those right now).

[Image: NASA/KSC Mars Greenhouse Project].

If the above image, released by the Mars Greenhouse Project to illustrate the possibilities of offworld agriculture, instead depicted Beesley’s Hylozoic Soil sprouting hives, valves, filters, and membranes to form a future living system, then perhaps the hidden value of these sorts of architectural experiments might be revealed.

In any case, if you’re in Venice this week, stop by the opening of Hylozoic Ground at the Biennale.

An article published today in the Los Angeles Times contains several fascinating details, including scenes of researchers from the Southern California Earthquake Center digging trenches into land surrounding the San Andreas fault.

[Image: Photo by Ricardo DeAratanha, courtesy of the Los Angeles Times].

There, they use “carbon dating and sophisticated imaging technology known as lidar to find signs of earth movements,” and, in the process, are “able to detect earthquakes dating back to the 15th century.” Seismic historiography meets the earth-archive.

The other detail worth highlighting, however, is what you see in the image above: “Sarah Robinson, 23, a graduate student at Arizona State University, runs along a trench at the Bidart Fan sector of the San Andreas fault in June 2009. She is on a team of geologists trying to construct a history of earthquakes on the San Andreas fault by reading lines of sediment in the earth.” Robinson is running alongside one of these excavations, a clearly defined cut that yawns open like a wound in the earth’s surface—implying the possibility of faults artificially held open, like something from a dream by Lebbeus Woods. It is a scar, poised on the verge of healing, but for these metallic insertions, spatial implements squeezed into the planet like car jacks, bringing new tectonic plates into existence from the top-down.

Imagine a rogue, university-funded team of geologists researching ever-lower levels of the earth, forcing themselves downward with separating devices that pin open rocky wounds to split whole landmasses along unanticipated faultlines. Using these tools—terrain deformation grenades gone linear—they create islands in the earth’s crust, like walled castles of geology, carving out new blocks in the landscape.

[Image: Woodworms by Zimoun].

While we’re on the subject of acoustic botany, it’s worth recalling Swiss artist Zimoun’s Woodworms installation, whose minimalist set-up simply reads: “25 woodworms, wood, microphone, sound system.” You can watch—and listen to—a video of the piece here.

Don’t miss Zimoun’s other work, however: a machinic delirium of motors mounted on walls and tabletops, all oscillating in and out of phase with one another and ebbing with the off-kilter sound of endless drones.

(Huge thanks to Greg Smith and Paul Prudence!)