Form Follows Love (English Edition) by Birkhäuser

FORM FOLLOWS LOVE

Anna Heringer

Dominique Gauzin-Müller

Birkhäuser

Basel

From Anna, to Stefan and Mirjam, in gratitude for their love and support.

From Dominique, to her granddaughter Livia, wishing her a life full of love and adventure.

Architecture must bring meaning to people and add to a healthy planet and to social justice, and that is what I am trying to do with my work. Anna Heringer

This quote by Anna also epitomizes the essence of the OBEL AWARD –which Anna won in 2020. Thus, we wish to recognize and celebrate Anna’s unwavering commitment to using design to enrich and empower those in need, as well as encouraging others to create ethically sound and sustainable architecture. The OBEL AWARD is proud to have played a part in taking Anna’s message and success further with this publication and its upcoming sequel.

I hope you will find this book inspiring. I did!

Jesper Eis Eriksen, Executive Director OBEL AWARD and the Henrik Frode Obel Foundation

In most areas of my life, I have felt that I am fairly average. I wasn’t highly gifted in school – nor was I a poor student. I got good grades, but I wasn’t brilliant. I was musically talented, but not a prodigy. I didn’t grow up poor by European standards, nor did I feel part of consumer society. I can’t say that I’m average height, though. I’m short – but I never felt small or powerless. And that makes all the difference!

I never thought to myself: “Nothing makes sense,” or “It will never work that way here,” or “What can one person do anyways?” All my life, I’ve been firmly convinced that I can change the world, and that anyone else can do it too. I certainly owe this confidence to my parents, my family, the friends I grew up with, my teachers, and the many people who crossed my path.

The world doesn’t change because of one, single, big decision. The world changes because of the small decisions that we make every day, whether they are conscious or unconscious.

This book is about those decisions and about fostering self-confidence; it is about not shying away from responsibility; and it is about learning to trust your intuition. It’s about overcoming setbacks and learning experiences – and of course, it is about architecture. This book also speaks to the power inherent to the building process and about building material choices. And above all, it values the astounding power of beauty and of love.

What this book is not is the story of someone going to a developing country to teach people in poor villages about architecture. It is a story about learning together, hand in hand. A story that raises the questions: What can we learn from other cultures to find happiness in sufficiency, self-empowerment, and resilience? What can we learn from the Global South, to ensure a good future is possible for all of us on this planet?

Every human being is born with unique and special talents. To discover what they are, to develop them, and to use them to bring oneself and others happiness is what I find a fulfilling life.

Anna Heringer

BANGLADESH: my m OST

FORMATIVE EXPERIEN c E

HONING MY CRAFT

While designing the METI School, I had many discussions with Paul Tigga, who was the director of the NGO Dipshikha and initiator of the project, as well as with his son Prodip, who was the school’s headmaster. Both wanted a building that enables “joyful learning,” or a school where children feel excited and happy to go every single day. This encouraged me to design it purely from a child’s perspective. I deliberately chose not to do any research on subjects like child psychology. Instead, I remembered my own childhood, and reconnected with my inner child. I believe that we, as human beings, are very similar, if we can simply eliminate all of the layers of our own egos that constrict us. By concentrating on essential human needs, I discovered that the dreams and requirements of a kid from Bavaria were not actually very different to those of a kid from Bangladesh.

The places that my friends and I loved during our childhood were cave spaces: ones that imbued us with a feeling of being protected and embraced, but also spots that gave us a complete view of our surroundings. I loved being under a table with tablecloths covering all of the sides, so the sunlight passed through in different colors. No one could see me, but I could hear everything. Sometimes, I hid under bushes or on a tree surrounded with lush greenery with my friends. It shielded us, but also provided a secret panorama of everything that was happening around us. In these kind of zones – which are usually small, and with an atmospheric, patched light, I always felt very safe and protected, yet part of the life going on around me. It’s what children can experience while sitting in the caves of the METI School: they are inside of a small space, but have windows to the outside, and openings into the classroom. The school also has the kind of tree house that many children dream of.

People often ask me if children were involved in the design process, but it wasn’t the case. For this project, as for the ones that later followed, I tried to concentrate on the most basic and vital human needs: protection, a sense of value, belonging to a community, empowerment, and a

11 These colorful Shari fabrics replaced the missing doors when the METI School opened 2006. But I liked them so much, that we kept them permanently (→ next page).

sort of playfulness. The design and construction process, as well as the spatial patterns that I use, react to these archaic needs.

For the METI School, the client wanted to have a round classroom, because their students usually sat in circles on the floor. I also consulted some teacher friends about their ideal classroom. They all preferred to have a room with a lot of corners, in order to break up the group a bit, and have the ability to send several children to different spots in small teams. This resonated with my own experiences, for example when I wanted to be on my own because I was sad, or needed to reflect and to process something, and the classroom design forced me to be part of the group when I didn’t want to. On the other hand, I also knew that the span of a standard-size classroom was too wide for the bamboo ceiling, and that I needed columns for load-bearing purposes. All these elements together – the wish of the client for organic shapes, the possibility of breakout spaces, and structural requirements – led to the creation of the caves. So I could offer the children a protective atmosphere, a playful element, and a warm feeling in the classroom. Beyond pure functionality, it’s a space that embodies love and joy.

The whole upper floor is like a large treehouse. The cave and the treehouse offer two very different qualities. Both – the grounded, introverted earthen atmosphere of the ground floor, and the airy, light and extroverted bamboo structure of the second floor – are equally important to me. As I mentioned before, the bamboo construction was strongly influenced by the techniques I learned when I was at scout camp: the structure of the west facade looks like my old tower from summer camp. For many of the kids in Rudrapur, the school was the first two-story building that they had ever seen. It was very exciting for them to go up there. Some were afraid of it in the beginning, but soon they conquered all of the spaces with great excitement.

The contrast between the massive roughness of the earthen walls and the lightness of the brightlycolored saris, which we used for the ceiling and the curtains in the

doors, is one of the elements that makes the atmosphere of the METI School so special. I also particularly like the contrast between the patterns of the bamboo and the saris. I always loved to see these beautiful textiles drying on clotheslines while I was walking around in the villages. In some houses, saris are also placed below the ceiling, above the bed, to protect against dust falling from the thatched roof. I simply drew from this inspiration, and used it at a different scale and in a different way.

I designed the METI School with earth and bamboo to show the inherent beauty of these materials. I wanted to prove that their use is not limited to small, dark huts; that one can also erect large structures, ones that bear witness to their fantastic qualities. The ground floor has load-bearing walls built in a technique called cob. Earth and rice straw were mixed by cows and water buffalos, and then heaped on top of the fired-brick base to a height of about 65 centimeters per layer. After a few days, excess material was trimmed off with a sharp spade. The next layer of cob was applied after a drying period of about one week.

The techniques were developed and implemented with Eike RoswagKlinge and Christof Ziegert. The earth and bamboo works were created by 25 craftsmen from Rudrapur and the neighboring villages. They were trained on site, which created new jobs – a furt her step towards empowerment. We taught them new techniques, but we also learned from them: for example, mixing techniques. Of course, we didn’t have

mixing machines on site. We tried to mix the earth and straw with a ploughing machine, but it didn’t work. Then we tried mixing with cows. That was already better. But then the workers told us: “Look, the cows are too smart. They always step in the foot holes of the previous round. You need water buffaloes, Anna!” By the peak of the construction process, I was the proud owner of eight water buffaloes!

In order to protect the walls from humidity, the building sits on a 50-centimeter-deep masonry foundation made of fired bricks, the most common product in the Bangladeshi building industry. This base is sealed with a facing cement plaster. Beyond the foundation, a double layer of locally available polyethylene film was used to create a dampproof membrane. This was the other main addition to local earth building methods. The foundation and membrane make the building last longer, while reducing maintenance requirements. We covered the building with a wide roof to protect the walls from the top. We also added straw to the earth. Thus, when the surface erodes down by about two centimeters, the straw begins to stick out, and makes the façade rougher. It’s the flow of water that causes erosion, and this roughness slows down the speed of rainwater running down the façade. Water on the façade itself is not a problem; when it gets wet, the clay particles expand, close the cracks naturally, and then water cannot penetrate particularly deep into the façade. The straw stabilizes these wet parts. And because clay dries out quickly, the walls are very durable.

The modernity that many seek comes through design rather than industrial materials.

The walls of the METI School were built in 2005, and they have been standing very strongly ever since then, even in the face of driving rain in the monsoon season. There are absolutely no chemical additives in the earth wall – only the natural straw. Many people would assume, to make it modern and more durable, one must add cement or some other kind of stabilizing substance. But this really isn’t necessary. Why would I want to add anything to a material that’s already perfect? It can balance the humidity during rainy season better than any other material. If a spot needs to be repaired, just take the broken part out, add some water to it, and put it back. After it is dry, it looks just as it did before. And if you want to dismantle the building, just take the roof off, and let the walls crumble to the ground from whence they came. Then grow your vegetables on top of it. None of this is possible if you add cement! The modernity that many seek comes through design rather than industrial materials. Following circular principles, the assemblage of the bamboo structure

was executed with nylon ropes and steel pins, such that they could be reused at the end of the building’s life. For smaller spans in other buildings, we have also used coconut fiber ropes we wove ourselves, in combination with bamboo dowels.

The irregular rhythm of the façade was very important to the design. That’s where the music comes in. I find repeating, standardized grids to be horrible. Designs that emerge purely through regular framing make my hair stand on end. When you play the drums, you leave out beats; you emphasize the offbeat, or the downbeat. That’s what I felt while designing the rhythm of the METI School façade. This caused some discussions on site with my colleagues from Germany. They thought that it would be better to create a regular façade grid, and make all the windows at the same height – which would certainly have been easier from a construction perspective. But the irregular rhythm of the façade was very important to me. Even heartbeats are not always the same – t hey skip a beat when we fall in love. It feels unnatural to make everything so rational. And in the end, it even turned out to be easier to make irregular designs with a team of craftspeople who never had used a meter or level before. I think it would not have reflected the sensitive Bangladeshi culture. It’s our emotions that bring in the rhythm.

Bringing color into the building was very important to me from the beginning. In Bangladesh, colors are an integral part of everyday life, especially in textiles, for both men and women. The school already looked quite impressive with its raw structure. But when the colors came in, they connected the building to the hearts of the villagers. You could see that people started embracing the school on an emotional level.

Including the future users of the building in the construction process was also very important to me. For that reason, I proposed two Austrian Montessori teachers join the team: Christine Karl and Clemens Bernhard. They were responsible for involving the children in the construction after their regular classes were over. Of course, it brought a lot of chaos onto the site, but it was completely worth it. The children normally do pottery work and many other creative activities in

FROM BAN g LA d ESH TO EUROPE

ONE PLANET, ONE FAMILY

SEARc HIN g FOR A g LOBAL STRATEgy

For a long time, I wasn’t particularly interested in building in Germany. There are too many regulations that often are supported by the building industry and its lobbies, and they often deliberately preclude potential innovations. If you don’t want to use industrialized materials, and if you don’t want to follow conventional construction processes, you have to invest a lot of time and tremendous effort in doing it differently. I have long thought that it this would simply be wasted energy. It’s not easier to work in remote rural areas. It’s very challenging to build with highly limited resources and untrained site workers, who often don’t know how to read a plan or to use measuring tools. It also requires a lot of effort and time to create a fruitful working environment. But to me, this process felt much more rewarding by comparison, because t he outcome was always a learning experience for every party involved. It was about overcoming fears, building mutual trust, and that was more reliable than any rule or regulation. I also thought that there are already too many architects working in Europe, and I felt neither needed nor particularly wanted.

It took time before I began getting requests from European clients, probably because my philosophy and my architecture seemed a bit unusual. And at the same time, I began to understand that it’s also important that my approach is tested and validated in the context of industrialized countries, in order to be truly fair and just. I went to Bangladesh as a foreigner, and built something there that was regarded as exotic; it brought me honors and awards. But to end the process at this point would mean missing out on an even greater learning experience. I felt, and still feel, the need to implement lessons that I have learned in Bangladesh in the context of the Global North. I strongly believe that we are one human family sharing one planet. There is no ethical way to explain why we should build differently in parts of the world where wealth can purchase all sorts of resources, and exploit others who do not possess the same means and power. I believe in a global strategy of sustainability, one that is affordable for everyone. And I’m convinced

that, especially in the face of the geopolitical tensions and social rifts around the world today, an inclusive, participatory process is more necessary than ever.

My heartfelt belief is that a strategy for sustainability that is only af fordable for part of the world’s population is wrong. When we conceptualize and realize our buildings, it’s imperative to think and act globally. Having more money doesn’t mean we have the right to exhaust what are actually shared resources. I want to prove that the approach to sustainability I conducted in Bangladesh has also value in t he European context, and beyond. We have a lot to learn from the Global South! Besides being ethically fair, integrating vernacular wisdom and knowledge in our building processes will enrich our cultures and societies. •

SMART RISKS

It simply wouldn’t be fair if I were to build in earth for Catholic priests in Ghana and in concrete for the Catholic Church in Bavaria. Building with local resources and natural materials, especially earth, is a central concern of mine, and it is as relevant in Europe as anywhere else in the world. But, of course, it’s much more difficult to apply those principles in Europe. For projects in the Global South, I have never followed any standards or rules or certifications. My compass was led purely by intuition, and a common-sense vision of sustainability. In Germany, I do the same, but there is endless “background noise” accompanying the process that renders intuitive decisions difficult to achieve. Most of them are associated with some kind of fear.

In Bangladesh, I discussed details with the master builder, the craftsmen, and the client, and we worked together to find the best solution. If somet hing doesn’t work the way it should, we take responsibility for it together, and we pull together to find a solution. That makes innovation possible. I have experienced this in Vorarlberg too. This Austrian region is one of t he most innovative in the world in regard to sustainability, building cultures, and creating a beautifully, crafted kind of architecture.

We grant standards tremendous power, but norms are not forces of nature!

An experience I shared with Martin Rauch had a great impact on me. In 2011, I spent one year in Boston as recipient of the Loeb Fellowship at the Harvard Graduate School of Design (GSD ). In this context, we worked together on a sculptural installation along the main façade of the GSD . The project involved about 150 students, faculty members, and people from the area. Construction was halted almost daily, due to a new fear about liability or potential damage. After what felt like the tenth construction stop, Martin’s patience had worn thin, and he said very unequivocally: “Let me be clear. There’s no innovation without risk!” This call went off like a bomb, and not only for me! After this outburst, no one dared to express any more concerns.

Of course, you have to be able to take risks and not stumble into them blindly. This requires really thorough knowledge of materials, good craftspeople, and a courageous client, one who is a true partner on the project. Then you can assess the risk together, and go out on a limb, just as far as you can to master potential problems on your own. You have to know why and for whom you are accepting risk. It has to be worth it, and sustainability is the best reason to do so. But the fear of violating rules and norms, and having to take responsibility for this, are only half of the challenge. I’m convinced that greed is one of the major reasons for the problems we face. In fact, many standards and rules are heavily influenced by industrial interests, and the construction lobbies use fear to their advantage. In some countries, lobbyists have even managed to ban load-bearing earthen construction unless the clay is stabilized with cement.

We grant standards tremendous power, but norms are not forces of nature! And we Germans seem to be particularly submissive to this. I

44 Installation along the façade of the Harvard Graduate School of Design, in Cambridge (Massachusetts, USA ), 2012. A joint project with Martin

Rauch, sponsored by the Loeb Fellowship program.

remember once having a conversation with Japanese architect Shigeru Ban. When I asked him about his experience of realizing an enormous paper structure for the Expo 2000 in Hannover, he answered: “Everywhere in the world, people are happy when there’s no standard for a certain type of structure, a material or a constructive detail, which creates a gray area. Then this gap is happily exploited. In Germany, however, ‘no standard’ means that it cannot be built and is therefore forbidden.” Every now and then it’s advisable to run a red light, as my father says, and to not comply with standards, because if we wait until all of our requirements are truly supporting resource-saving and sustainable buildings, it will be too late!

A major reworking of building norms and standards is urgently required. Every single rule should be closely examined, according to the question: “Who benefits from this?” And nature shouldn’t be left out of the equation. We cannot accept construction methods that consume large amounts of resources, in order to appear to increase the safety of but a few people, and thus cause significant damage to the climate. Because it’s all too certain that these have serious consequences for all of us.

It’s very important to check the causes of our fears, and whether the risk is real. In Germany, for example, regulations for car seats, seat belts, airbags and other safety features are becoming more and more strict. But introducing a speed limit on the Autobahn would be a much more clever solution to increase safety for children and everybody else on the highway: driving would be less dangerous, and it would also reduce CO 2 emissions, better protecting nature, too. Such examples abound in construction as well. The amount of resources consumed for fire protection alone is enormous. And it’s the same for acoustic and thermal regulations.

During the construction of the ceiling of our timber-frame building for the Campus St. Michael boarding school in Traunstein, the building physics analysis required the insertion of a latex milk into the gravel fill, in order to increase the sound insulation by about three decibels. Without latex milk, we didn’t reach the limit prescribed by the standards. We had a lot of discussions to decide whether or not it was acceptable to instead just ask the building’s future young occupants to be more considerate of each other. Fortunately, we were able to agree on this alternative, and that allowed us to avoid bringing into the building unnecessary chemicals, and volatile organic compounds

(VOC) emissions, and creating future hazardous waste. Consideration versus ultimate individual freedom

If only we were all a bit more empathetic in how we treat one another! The amount of land we would save if so many people didn’t aspire to own a single-family home. We are destroying biodiversity and fertile farmland for food, just because we want to maximize individual freedom. What will our future generations have to say about this? Fear is t he core issue that keeps us from building sustainably. The fear of impermanence, of lack and personal restriction, of mistakes, of taking responsibility. That’s why we have created a false safety net of standards and norms and insurance policies, which appear to relieve us of t his burden. And it’s this net that has entrapped us. We don’t have to abolish all standards. But we do need to reclaim our decision-making power, and learn to take responsibility again.

Perfection blocks any form of participation, and it also causes excessive resource consumption.

This is not about power, but about self-empowerment. In the end, it’s much more valuable to consciously do what our inner voice tells us. In order to achieve this, we need education across all levels: intellectual, manual, emotional, social, and spiritual. We need a comprehensive understanding. And to achieve that is an important goal in life. We access real freedom when we don’t let ourselves be guided by fears and doubts, but instead, become the person we are in our innermost being.

Anot her common societal problem is the desire for perfection. Behind that, too, there is ultimately a fear. The fear of not being good enough. Fortunately, I was able to rid myself of perfectionism to a great extent. Perfection blocks any form of participation, and it also causes excessive resource consumption. How much steel and other reinforcement could we save, for example, if we would accept nonstructural cracks? And how many gallons of paint and other toxic coatings or adhesives could we save if we revealed them?

Perfectionism also ties up enormous amounts of energy that we could put to better use elsewhere. We all know how much energy and effort it takes to achieve the last 10% of perfection on a construction site. Does it really have to be like this? Aren’t there more sensible goals to focus our energy on? A door handle is just a door handle. Sure, it’s a nice gesture if it’s beautifully designed, and I’m happy when I experience thoughtful and well-executed details. But the effort must remain in proportion

to the result. Such details often crowd out the important things, the invisible materials that are worth fighting for: for example, the hidden materials, because it concerns the human or planetary health.

Building in tropical climates was a good lesson for me. Nothing stays perfect there for long, and that’s also kind of liberating. I also refuse to be perfect in Germany! If the concept really makes sense, and if the architecture is good, then we can tolerate a few imperfections in the details. That makes the buildings human! In Islamic architecture, mistakes were even deliberately built in, for example in the ornaments, to show that only the divine is perfect. I find that a very sympathetic stance. •

THE BEAUTY OF NATURAL MATERIALS

The good thing about buildings made with natural materials is that they are, by nature, never quite perfect. They are lively, and that feeds the soul! We received this feedback from the guests of the Waldhaus 20 (forest house), which I designed wit h Martin Rauch in 2019 for the RoSana Ayurveda Retreat Center in Rosenheim, Germany. To supplement t heir existing accommodations, we planned a small building with four rooms and a staff apartment, and tried to insert it as gently as possible into the surroundings. The local materials of the building site, which is adjacent to an alluvial forest, consist of wood, willow, and clay. The house has a load-bearing timber structure, rammed-earth walls, and a woven façade made of unpeeled, untreated willow, which fosters harmony with the environment. All three materials are, by nature, polychromatic; their surfaces are lively, exhibiting small cracks and dif ferent shades of color. Every now and then, a small stone comes loose from the rammed-earth wall. And nature knows no straight axes! Therefore, the Waldhaus meanders organically along the floodplain of the forest, and peers over it like a giant bird’s nest.

People come to the RoSana Retreat Center because they feel physically or psychologically overloaded and weak. If you perceive yourself as anything but perfect – and perhaps that’s the very reason why you are so burned out, because you are constantly trying to be flawless – I believe that a perfect environment hinders the healing process. Accepting yourself, with all your weaknesses, is often the first step towards recovery. Many guests tell us that they appreciate the Waldhaus precisely because they are a part of nature there, and also because they see t he rooms as providing them with protection, without partitioning them off.

The key to the design was a reduction to the essential. But focusing on the essential is not just about scaling down a project. More special spaces and atmospheres are required to make the spatial experience exciting and substantial. Because then, less is not perceived as a

20 Realized with executing architect Martin Schaub, Rosenheim.

The Rosana Ayurveda Retreat Center, in Rosenheim (Bavaria, Southern Germany), nestled along the edge of the riparian forest (east view, 2021).

reduction in quality. At around 14 square meters in size, the rooms of the RoSana Waldhaus are relatively small, compared to the adjacent accommodation – especially considering that the guests spend a lot of time in the room, and that they usually stay for two or three weeks. We think that the reduced size of the space supports the patients in finding their inner peace. Wellbeing is not a matter of size and square meters, but rather, a matter of well-conceptualized proportions and handcrafted, natural building materials. The high quality of the materials lets their subtle nuances shine, especially those made of earth: t he archaic rammed earth, the velvety surface of the clay plaster, the handmade ceramic tiles, the finely tinted, creamy clay-casein putty for the flooring and the furniture. All this results in a harmony, inside and out – because what is good for nature is also good for human beings. •

46 Wood, willow, and earth were used as building materials for the RoSana Center (west view). 47 One of the guest rooms at the RoSana Center. What is good for nature is also healthy for people.

IMAGE CREDITS

Authors Anna Heringer

Dominique Gauzin-Müller

Acquisitions Editor: David Marold, Birkhäuser Verlag, Vienna, Austria

Content and Production Editor: Bettina R. Algieri, Birkhäuser Verlag, Vienna, Austria

Copyediting English: Lindsay Blair Howe, Zurich, Switzerland

Layout, cover design, and typography: Kathleen Bernsdorf, Berlin, Germany

Image editing: Pixelstorm Litho & Digital Imaging GmbH, Vienna, Austria

Printing: Beltz Grafische Betriebe GmbH, Bad Langensalza, Germany

Paper: Igepa Flora, Amber Graphic

Typeface: Cádiz Luzi Type Foundry, Swift Linotype

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023949553

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