Sandra Henderson

May 9, 2019

The Alhambra: Layers of Beauty and Architectural History

In her article “The Case for Beauty in Architecture,” The Slow Space Movement co-founder Mette Aamodt wrote that, “for a building to be good, it must be beautiful.” The fundamental aspiration for all good architecture to be beautiful then inevitably begs the question: What makes a structure beautiful?

No single answer can satisfy. No one building can unarguably be the world’s single most beautiful. And if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, no two people will see a built structure in the same way. Nevertheless, in our quest to at least approach a truth and to inspire discourse, we revisit the legendary Alhambra with architect and educator Irene Hwang. Hwang lived in Spain for a decade, where she worked for Pritzker-Prize-winning architect Rafael Moneo. She later brought architecture students from America back to Spain, as part of a summer studio she was teaching. Exploring the geographical, political and cultural borders between North Africa and southern Spain, the itinerary had taken the group to Morocco, Gibraltar, Cordoba and, eventually, the Alhambra.

A place built by culture: The citadel and its grounds are a World Cultural Heritage site. Photo: Irene Hwang

The Alhambra throughout the centuries

The Alhambra rises majestically above the city of Granada, Spain, as Europe’s preeminent paradigm of Moorish architecture. Qa’lat al-Hamra in Arabic means “crimson castle.” A forbidding defensive wall with numerous towers, including one enormously imposing square watchtower, surrounds a world of intricate architectural splendor, with the countless characteristic delicate pillars, ornate windows, stunning tile work, elaborate stucco walls, ravishing fountains.

In 711, an Arabic-Berber army from North Africa crossed the Strait of Gibraltar and conquered the southern part of the Iberian Peninsula. For the almost 800 years that followed, Andalusia stood under Arabic hegemony, flourishing into a vital center for the arts, humanities and science. The first kings of Granada, the Zirites, built their castles and palaces on the hill of the Albaicin. Nothing remains of them. The Nasrites probably started building the Alhambra in 1238. The founder of the dynasty, Muhammed Al-Ahmar, began with the restoration of the old fortress, and his successors continued with the repairs, constructed palaces, added towers, chambers, rooms and baths.

Christian kings gradually reconquered Spain, and in 1492, the Alhambra fell into the possession of the Spanish crown. The new rulers set their power and Catholic believes in stone, literally, and King Karl V. commissioned an imposing palace to house his private quarters.

Today, the Alhambra is an amalgamation of different eras of architectural style, construction phases and states of preservation. Much of the original structure was lost over the course of the centuries. And yet, the Alhambra is one of the best-preserved palace complexes of medieval Moorish architecture and remains one of Spain’s most popular tourist destinations. The citadel and its grounds are a World Cultural Heritage site.

Layers of detail at the Alhambra. Photo: Irene Hwang

The architecture instructor and her students were wowed by the incredible beauty of the Alhambra. Photo: Irene Hwang

Building culture

When Hwang herself studied the architectural history of Spain, the layering of architecture, inhabitation and history fascinated her immensely. “This idea of the recycling of things, the understanding of how things came to be in the loss and regain of knowledge was very interesting,” she recalls. She wanted to convey a sense of that layered history and architecture to her students, too, when she took them to the Alhambra. “There is a great Moorish-Islamic history to it, but also, there’s such strong Catholic occupation,” she says. To Hwang’s mind, architectural history, in this context, is important because it reveals how culture is built. History, movements and occupation become visible, manifested. “There are just so many teachable moments in seeing it,” Hwang remembers most about taking her American students to the Alhambra. “What I was hoping they would learn is to understand these borders. America is such a new country, and everything in the States is so regional. The thing that people don’t realize is that culture is built by the place, and the place is built by the culture.”

The thing that people don’t realize is that culture is built by the place, and the place is built by the culture.

Layers of history shown in one facade. Photo: Irene Hwang

On their tour through northern Africa and southern Spain, Hwang particularly wanted to show her students the layers of parts of buildings getting reused and grafted: ”It’s interesting to see what parts get taken away and what parts get kept,” she notes about the Alhambra’s history of Moorish and Christian occupation and influences. During the Ottoman Empire, southern Spain was part of Africa, not of Europe as we understand it now. “Seeing that history in layers of architecture was so interesting, and the students were really wowed by how beautiful everything was, and how you can destroy things but still keep them.”

Seeing that history in layers of architecture was so interesting, and the students were really wowed by how beautiful everything was, and how you can destroy things but still keep them.

The Alhambra is an amalgamation of different eras of architectural style, construction phases and states of preservation. Photo: Irene Hwang

The Alhambra’s unusual visual harmony

The Alhambra’s visual harmony is difficult to expound for Hwang, and she observes it’s not something we are used to seeing. “There is repetition, which is part of what makes harmony interesting, but where beauty comes in is hard to define, especially when you are teaching architecture students.” A good architecture project, she wanted her students to learn from the Alhambra, comes down to understanding the rhythms, the harmonies and the proportions, and, moving forward into the future, understanding the essence of sustainable building. “We can’t keep building cities out of nothing, so we have to recycle them. We have to graft onto them. And that’s what’s beautiful about the Alhambra. It’s hundreds of years old. People grafted onto it, and they weren’t single-handed about it. You can see the rhythms; the proportions of the plaster work, the spaces themselves, the gardens.”

We can’t keep building cities out of nothing, so we have to recycle them. We have to graft onto them. And that’s what’s beautiful about the Alhambra.

The Alhambra rises majestically above the city of Granada, Spain. Photo: Irene Hwang

What’s beautiful architecture to you?

What makes architecture beautiful in your eyes? What built structure in the world quintessentially represents this quality of elevated architectural allure, to your mind? Share your thoughts with us by posting a comment below!

The Alhambra remains one of Spain’s most popular tourist destinations. Photo: Irene Hwang

June 4, 2018

Tadelakt — A Clean Finish

Tadelakt, an ancient lime plaster finish, is a three-millennia-old clean building solution that originated in Morocco. The all-natural material is antibacterial, hypoallergenic and regulates moisture — essential properties for a healthy living environment. Traditional lime plaster, which is free of toxic compounds, slowly reabsorbs carbon dioxide from the air and is 100% recyclable.

A rare artisan and ambassador of tadelakt

As part of our series on Clean Building Solutions for Slow Spaces, we spoke with Fabio Bardini, who has spent many years studying original texts about different traditional lime plaster techniques. He experimented with the original recipes to revive the lost art of true Venetian plaster and other traditional lime plaster finishes, including a technique called “tadelakt.” Now living and working in Salem, Massachusetts, the native Italian is one of only a handful of artisans in the United States who master the ancient tadelakt technique.

Tadelakt is based on an aged lime putty Bardini imports from his home country of Italy. “Anything built with lime, whether it is tadelakt or Venetian plaster or any kind of plaster made from the lime putty, is the ultimate green material,” he says. “When you use the lime putty, it will begin to carbonate and the material itself reabsorbs all the carbon dioxide released from the burning of the limestone, so it has a very low carbon footprint.”

Anything built with lime, whether it is tadelakt or Venetian plaster or any kind of plaster made from the lime putty, is the ultimate green material. – Fabio Bardini

In Italy, the lime putty has been produced the same way for thousands of years: Earth-abundant limestone is fired in wood-burning kilns at 900 degrees Celsius for several days before it gets slaked and aged in open-air pits for a minimum of three years.

A time-consuming, intricate process that requires the skills of a “maalem” — a tadelakt artisan: The application of Marseille olive oil soap and polishing it with small semi-precious river stones gives tadelakt its silky feel.

Bardini makes his tadelakt primarily from the Italian lime putty, sand — silica sand or marble sand — and water. Other components, also all natural, can be mixed in. He applies the plaster with a small trowel (called a “cat’s tongue”). Once the lime plaster dries, it begins to absorb water again. That’s why an additional step becomes necessary to make the finish waterproof. “For the tadelakt, for example, we use Marseille olive oil soap, a traditional, ancient type of soap that is made in Marseille, France,” the skilled artisan says. “You rub it in with these hard, semi-precious stones, pebble-like, polished stones, and that gives the plaster that polished, smooth surface.” The chemical reaction between the olive oil soap and the carbonating lime — the so-called saponification — solidifies and waterproofs the plaster. Once cured, Bardini typically treats the plaster with natural beeswax to further protect the surface without altering its beneficial qualities. The velvety smooth tadelakt thus becomes an ideal finishing material for building sinks, tubs, floors, even entire shower rooms.

The origins of tadelakt

Tadelakt originated in Morocco, where the technique was used to line water cisterns for drinking water. “It’s a very good material to keep water because it’s antibacterial, antifungal and antimicrobial,” Bardini explains. The material is also high in pH, with a pH of 12.4. It has always been well known for creating a healthy environment, even in a home. For example, lime plaster finishes have long been used to paint basements and root cellars. “People would do that in the fall, before they would store all their winter vegetables, like potatoes and onions,” Bardini says. “It’s also been used to paint the cow stalls and other animal stalls before the animals give birth. So it’s an ancient sanitizer.”

Even before tadelakt was used in Morocco, it is believed that the Romans brought their lime plaster techniques to the North-African country on their conquest south. “The Romans were masters of these classic techniques using lime and aggregates like marble dust or marble sand,” Bardini says. “The Romans invented this finish called marmorino, which translates to ‘little marble.’ It was the lime putty mixed with the marble dust that they used to line the walls of their villas, and that resembled a slab of marble when you applied it. They brought that method along with them.” The Moroccans then adapted the lime plaster finishing technique to the implements and materials available to them. They used a different type of limestone, for instance. “And instead of metal tools, they used little rocks, little polished stones. So the finish has a style of its own, but the basic ingredients and applications are very similar to the Roman-style walls.” The beauty and benefits of tadelakt later brought the lime plaster finish to the hammams (public baths) and private homes in and around Marrakech.

Mixing Marrakech Lime with water and yellow pigment to make tadelakt in Morocco. Photo by Joaoleitao

Bardini first learned about traditional lime finishing techniques when he attended art school in Florence, Italy, and studied architectural history from the old Egyptians through the Renaissance period. “These types of finishes kept on resurfacing from Roman times through the 1400s. Then, with architects like Palladio, they again resurfaced around the 16th, 17th century,” he says. Much later, during the 20th century, the techniques experienced yet another resurgence, when architects such as the Italian maestro Carlo Scarpa brought the materials and applications into modernism. “These are beautiful finishes, sought after for their beauty and resilience,” says Bardini, who regrets that today very few craftspeople master these traditional lime finishing techniques in the United States. “They just get confused with modern, industrial products, but they look quite different,” he says. “Unfortunately, people give commercial plasters a lot of names: Stucco Romano or Venetian plaster per se, these are all products made with acrylics and a lot of chemicals. The classic materials of the past were very simple, made with lime putty and marble, and very little additions of these natural ingredients, like linseed oil or olive oil soap, and also beeswax for the final polishing. Those materials used for the past 3000 years never changed. You can still use all those materials and achieve the same results.”

“These are beautiful finishes, sought after for their beauty and resilience. – Fabio Bardini

An ancient art for patient people

With all the evident benefits and advantages of tadelakt, why then are these traditional lime plaster finishes — timelessly beautiful, long-lasting and environmentally friendly even by modern standards — not implemented more widely in the building field today? Besides blaming the lack of maalem (tadelakt artisans) who could train others in the United States, Bardini says about mastering the technique: “It’s more like trial and error, and people like me take the time to study and try and finally come to a good product that can be applied.”

Bardini considers himself both an artist and a craftsman. “And that’s the type of person you need to be to work with these finishes,” he admits. “It is very tedious.” Finishing a bathroom with tadelakt takes about two month, then a sink or a shower has to cure for a month before it can be used. Tadelakt continues to change its color and harden over the months, years and even decades. “So it’s important to be very careful when it’s first applied,” says Bardini. “It is softer in the beginning, so if you were to do a floor in tadelakt, you wouldn’t want to walk on it with shoes at first.” After this initial time period, though, tadelakt becomes very durable and will last for many years, according to the master.

Tadelakt is a popular finishing material for building sinks, tubs, floors and showers. Photo by SpOon.

What’s more, traditional lime plaster finishes are typically applied directly over masonry structures. “So we have an additional challenge here in the United States, being that buildings are stud-framed,” Bardini points out. To apply tadelakt over stud-framed construction and modern substrates such as drywall prior preparation of the surface is necessary. Tadelakt in wet environments requires a cement board and a half-inch-thick lime-and-sand plaster base.

Bardini describes the tadelakt surface as being “hard as stone yet soft as silk,” and to appreciate the allure of tadelakt, he says it is necessary to caress it. “The beauty of these finishes is unmatched by anything available commercially or industrially produced,” he says. “But, you know, there are people who are willing to go through the process and to pay for the work, and they will enjoy it for the rest of their lives.”

The beauty of these finishes is unmatched by anything available commercially or industrially produced. – Fabio Bardini

January 10, 2018

Empathy in Architecture: The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village by MASS Design

In her recent essay “Designing with Empathy,” Slow Space founder and architect Mette Aamodt writes, “Empathy is putting yourself in someone else’s shoes and feeling the emotions they feel.”

What if this “someone else” is a pregnant woman in Malawi, one of the world’s poorest countries? As an architect, how do you put yourself in that pair of shoes, in which she walked the long journey from her village to the district hospital in Kasungu, where she hopes to receive essential medical services that will give her a better chance of surviving childbirth?

Only slightly more than half of the children in this Southeast-African country are born under the care of a medical professional. Malawi has one of the worst maternal mortality rates in the world — 634 deaths per 100,000 live births (est. 2015).

The University of North Carolina (UNC) had already been working with Malawi’s Ministry of Health on a larger initiative to help address maternal mortality through medical practices and protocols. As part of the project, the Ministry had quickly and with very limited resources created a prototype maternity waiting home; a bare-bones rectangle, housing 36 beds and a small bathroom at its core. Outside, a small, unshaded space for washing laundry. They planned to build 130 more maternity waiting homes across the country, based on that model.

At the time, Boston-headquartered MASS Design Group (MASS) already had an office in Kigali, working on projects in Rwanda. The firm was invited to Malawi to contribute a design that could improve the mothers’ experience and help to mitigate that country’s unfathomably high maternal mortality rate. Women waiting until they are too close to labor for making the distance and women who had planned on giving birth at home in their village but encounter complications, far away from the nearest doctor, are at a particularly high risk. Thus, a maternity waiting home is a facility in the proximity of a hospital or health centre, where expecting mothers can stay toward the end of their pregnancy and await labor.

MASS’ mission

MASS Design Group’s mission is to design environments that promote health and dignity. The firm, founded as non-profit organization, aims to advance a movement that fosters public awareness of the way architecture can hurt or heal. Empathy in architecture, trying to understand the feelings of their design’s future users, is woven into the fabric of the firm. “It’s not just the Maternity Waiting Village for us that embodies empathy in design,” says Director Patricia Gruits, LEED. “That is really part of what we as a firm bring to all of our projects. We claim that entire process as an opportunity to ensure dignity and empathy across the continuum of design and construction.”

We claim that entire process as an opportunity to ensure dignity and empathy across the continuum of design and construction.

Empathy in architecture: The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

Immersion first

Before beginning to design, the MASS team traveled to the site of the future Maternity Waiting Village, set adjacent to Kasungu’s district hospital, where pregnant women from the surrounding villages came to deliver their babies. “We always start each project with what we call ‘immersion’,” Gruits notes. “It’s about immersing ourselves in the community, so we understand the needs, the context, any opportunities of the project — not sort of drop in a solution.”

It’s about immersing ourselves in the community, so we understand the needs, the context, any opportunities of the project — not sort of drop in a solution.

On his first site visit, her colleague Jean Paul Sebuhayi Uwase, design associate in MASS’ Rwanda office, was shocked to find these mothers under the rain, without shelter. Some stayed in tents, others slept outside under the trees. “What if this was my mother?” he remembers thinking. “For you to go through the experience of giving birth, you deserve to have this space that treats you well. That was pushing us to design, to go outside of the normal things, for this to be a special place for these mothers to give birth, but also a special space for people to change their mindset of not always delivering at their homes or in their villages.”

During the immersion, the MASS team quickly observed how social the Malawian women were, spending most of the time gathered together outside, sitting on the ground, around a tree in the shade or under the overhang of another building. The current prototype design clearly was not responding to the Malawian way of life.

The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village, empathy in architecture

The design of the Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village is inspired by the way of life in a traditional Malawaian village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

Researching the setup of typical Malawian villages, the team found that even as younger generations start their own families, they all stay in the same area, near the houses of their parents and grandparents. The family life extends fluidly. “That creates a social cohesion within the family,” Uwase says. How could they recreate aspects of the mothers’ village life through design? By allowing empathy to influence their architecture. The common spaces in particular were designed to encourage gathering and interacting. “That creates a friendship that extends beyond the Maternity Waiting Village,” Uwase says. The hope for the Village is to encourage the women to carry on a social life and normal friendships. Gruits references the project’s main goal: “We really wanted to transform this maternity waiting experience from something that was seen as a negative experience for mothers, something that disempowered them, to something that was empowering.”

We really wanted to transform this maternity waiting experience from something that was seen as a negative experience for mothers, something that disempowered them, to something that was empowering.

The architect speaks of a local nurse’s vision for these women to come and learn a skill, so they can return to their villages not only with a healthy baby but with new potential and opportunities. Classes on gardening, nutrition, cooking and family planning are crucial to the program. “All of that is about really impacting and empowering her to make better and different life decisions that are right for her and her family.”

The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

Empathy in architecture: Design for dignity

36 women sleeping in one big room was not the right answer to fostering solidarity. Based on their research on social interactions and social networks, MASS instead designed small huts that sleep four women each. Clusters of three huts surround a core of washrooms, showers and a laundry area 12 mothers share. A total of three clusters is complemented by a room for classes, several outdoor areas and a kitchen.

The local nurses and UNC saw additional opportunity to pair experienced mothers with first-timers, so they can coach each other along and answer questions. “There is now this much more communal approach to giving birth and to the pregnancy process,” Gruits says. Her colleague agrees: “The way it has been designed really helps to facilitate all of those relationships and connections.” The team even renamed their maternity waiting home Maternity Waiting Village, for its many chances to encourage relationship building through design.

The designers also had to address Malawi’s extreme climate of very strong rain seasons and very hot dry seasons. The mothers needed protection from the rain throughout the village, including covered walkways. But they also needed shaded areas where they would be protected from the sun. “So we really focused on the roof of the project,” says Gruits. “We looked at the roof to create those overhangs to shade and to protect from the rain.” Ample outdoor spaces now facilitate education programs and cooking classes or simply for the women to cook and gather together more comfortably.

What’s more, the mothers are typically accompanied by family members, who cook for them, keep them company and help them through the delivery process. So the designers doubled the number of toilets and added large benches under the overhangs. “If we couldn’t provide a bed for the guardians, at least we could provide protection from the rain and the sun,” Gruits says.

In the quest to combat maternal mortality beyond the Village, a key design objective had been to inspire the mothers to return to their villages and in turn encourage other pregnant women to make their way to the Maternity Waiting Village in Kasungu.

Building for a future

Malawi suffers from extreme deforestation, and high-quality building materials are hard to come by. “When you fire bricks, you use a lot of wood,” says Uwase. “So on this project, they were interested in us testing alternative building materials that would be more sustainable and would be solutions to combat deforestation.” The group implemented CSEBs — compressed stabilized earth blocks, which use very small amounts of cement and no firewood. Local laborers made the bricks onsite.

Uwase speaks passionately about the opportunity to train the local carpenters in reading technical drawings, and to influence them to think differently about materials. “Part of our model at MASS is that we are not just designing a building and dropping it off,” Gruits adds. “We train wherever we can, which not only ensures the stewardship or the repair or the maintenance of our own buildings but also that those same workers may go off and use that skill on another job and make more money.”

Uwase has returned to Kasungu three times since construction finished and women have moved into the Maternity Waiting Village he helped to build. One of the doctors told him that word-of-mouth is spreading about “one of the best places to wait when you are attending the maternity services.” If anything, too many mothers from the area surrounding Kasungu are coming. “It’s a good sign,” says Uwase. “It shows a response to one of the concerns we had when we studied the design, and how the design can change the mindset and attract more mothers. And that’s happening now, which makes me happy.”

The design aims to encourage more women from the surrounding villages to come to the Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

More mothers are waiting

The MASS team knew from interviewing mothers beforehand that there would be more than 36 mothers at a time wanting to come. “There is a bigger demand for this Maternity Waiting Village,” Gruits notes. “Part of it being well designed is that we’ve been successful in encouraging more mothers to come, but we need more of these facilities to actually accommodate the demand.” The district hospital itself is currently adding on to their maternity ward. “It’s a huge success that they would invest in that infrastructure.”

The Malawian Ministry of Health is now considering implementing the MASS-designed Maternity Waiting Village prototype on a larger scale. “We’ve had conversations as well with NGOs and other leaders in Zambia and even in Uganda about maternity waiting homes,” Gruits says. “People are interested in using our model, and we see this as an opportunity for other countries that are also looking at maternity waiting villages as a solution to their maternal mortality issues.”

November 7, 2017

Architecture as Experience: Peter Zumthor’s Thermal Baths

This article is part of an installment of essays and examples illuminating the essence of good architecture, which, as Slow Space founder Mette Aamodt defines, comprises the three fundamental qualities of empathy, experience and beauty. The exploration of Peter Zumthor’s thermal baths in Vals, Switzerland, represents a paragon of architecture as experience — as an extraordinary sensory experience.

Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

Solitude of space

To share a taste of this experience, we caught up with Swiss photographer Jonathan Ducrest, who explored Peter Zumthor’s thermal baths from a distinctive angle — from behind his sly camera lens — shot without special lighting. Ducrest, who says he’s “not big on taking pictures of people,” also minimally edited the photographs to give a more authentic sense of the place’s raw simplicity. It is the solitude of space that fascinates the photographer.

Ducrest now calls Los Angeles home. He’d returned home to his native Switzerland for the holidays and decided to take his mother on a spa weekend. “This was my third or forth trip to Vals,” says Ducrest, contemplating how time moves slower in the small mountain village of fewer than one thousand souls in Switzerland’s Graubünden canton. “You just relax, without the everyday stress. You can walk and enjoy nature, and there aren’t a lot of distractions.”

View into the surrounding landscape of the valley of Vals. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

Swiss minimalism

Zumthor, whose other significant works include the Kunsthaus in Bregenz, Austria, the all-timber Swiss Pavilion for Expo 2000 in Hannover, Germany, and the upcoming expansion of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) in the United States, designed the spa building over the canton’s only thermal springs. The hydrotherapy center, commissioned by the village of Vals, was completed in 1996. Zumthor’s rectilinear design contrasts the valley’s traditional vernacular structures and pastoral setting, and was to look as if it pre-dated the luxury hotel complex.

Zumthor’s minimalist, clean-lined design contrasts the valley’s traditional vernacular structures. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

“The spa and the hotel itself — it’s like this temple,” reflects Ducrest. “There’s nothing but the water and the stone the architect used.” The cave-like structure comprises 15 units, each five meters high, whose grass-covered concrete roofs don’t join. The slim gaps are filled in with glass. The dark quartzite slabs are quarried locally, and 60,000 one-meter-long stone sections clad the walls in a subtly ordered pattern. “He framed the landscape outside with windows,” the photographer describes. “It’s like you’re watching a painting when you’re relaxing in your chair, and you’re looking out and it’s snowing or the light is changing or there could be a storm outside. You’re becoming more attuned to your surroundings.” The fact that all the stone Zumthor used was brought in from the valley connects visitors even more to the encompassing environment. “Everything comes from there: the waters, the air, the sounds.”

Everything comes from there: the waters, the air, the sounds.

Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

Ducrest has long wanted to photograph the space. But without an official assignment, he needed to be cunning in shooting inside the thermal baths, beginning his day’s work early in the morning, when only hotel guests are allowed in. Having been in the space before, he knew beforehand what he wanted to capture. “I had my camera wrapped in my towel, and my mom was looking out if someone was coming. And I took the pictures in a natural light, there’s no flash,” reveals Ducrest, who intently refrained from retouching the photographs. He wanted to depict the architecture as purely as possible — in the way it was designed. What is more, he says, “The lighting changes throughout the day. If you start incorporating lighting that’s not supposed to be there, it’s going to change the feel of it. I like the fact that I had to deal with those constraints. And I don’t really like having people in my photography.”

I don’t really like having people in my photography.

Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

Feeling Zumthor

By design, Zumthor, who received the Pritzker Architecture Prize for his lifework in 2009, pulls the visitor from the arrival and physical transition into bath attire deeper into the spacial experience of the building. A gentle slope leads down to the locker rooms. “You go down this dark tunnel, and you get glimpses of what he wants you to go and explore,” the photographer tells. “As you walk down the hallway, you turn to your left, and there’s this small but very tall opening, and you can see the space below. You see a pool, and you want to go there and see that space. You’re going through a turnstile, and again, you walk this hallway, and there’s water coming out of little water sprouts.” At the end of the hall, the locker rooms lie behind heavy curtains. “You emerge on the other side into the main space, and as you are walking down the staircase, you’re going to see the outdoor pool. You’re going to see a part of the main pool. And you’ll again want to go further and explore.”

Rigid and in order: Swiss minimalism. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

Ducrest’s images are a pictorial reflection on the architect’s intent of creating a physical, mental and spiritual human experience — with the Swiss touch of the internationally renown architect, who was born in Basel in 1943, the son of a master carpenter. “In Switzerland, we like things in order and a little rigid, that’s how we are. That’s still how I am,” Ducrest notes. “When you’re there, it’s always straight lines. It’s hard corners. From the design, you wouldn’t think there is something soft or calming about the space. It’s very rigid and square, and there seems to be no end to this gray stone. But then you add the thermal water elements and the lighting, and it all comes together. Now, it’s a perfect space.”

The soft element of the thermal water in juxtaposition with the rough stone and the straight-line architecture perfects the experience of the space.

Also read: “Designing With Empathy” by Mette Aamodt

All posts by:Sandra Henderson

The Alhambra: Layers of Beauty and Architectural History

The Alhambra throughout the centuries

Building culture

The Alhambra’s unusual visual harmony

What’s beautiful architecture to you?

Tadelakt — A Clean Finish

A rare artisan and ambassador of tadelakt

The origins of tadelakt

An ancient art for patient people