Rau muống, Nostalgia, and War

From the editors

ARCHITECTURE WITHOUT ARCHITECTS.02

Words Zuza Sliwinska

In the monotony of standardized, cookie-cutter architecture, we continue striving for novelty in our designs. Yet, we find our imagination limited to the confinements of engraved in mind, set of typologies. Despite the pragmatic rationale behind the forms and shapes of our buildings, we wonder: is there a space for more originality and one-of-a-kindness? Will the future of design generate more limitations or possibilities, bringing dreamscapes to life? And if so, will our role as designers still be a creative one or will it become passive in favour of new (artificially) intelligent designer?

As a member of Bouwkunde, you have likely become familiar with the work of Bernard Rudofsky. If you haven’t, please grab a copy after rounding off the last page of this issue! In his discourse Architecture Without Architects: A Short Introduction to Non-Pedigreed Architecture, he takes a look at vernacular construction and argues the position of architectural practice as a universal phenomenon born in the hands of non-specialist and nonarchitect. Who, according to him, acts spontaneously, often out of necessity, supported solely by experience gathered within his/her community lifetime.1

As I navigate through pages of Rudofsky’s efforts to bring attention to the unfamiliar or otherwise what we could describe as informal architecture, I can’t help but notice that the array of examples in the book is everything but uniform in form and shape. The diversity comes in typology, tools and materials used, ornamentation (or complete disregard for it), and endless other parameters of unique identity each of these structures carries.

Isn't this historical narrative pictured by Rudofsky quite the opposite of what today's urban landscapes look like? Populated by same-looking structures, only now and then interrupted by work of some more daring designer or global starchitect? The popular yet monotonous residential building type of '5 over 1' was developed in the United States in the 80s. Like in the case of other typologies, it was essentially a product of the housing crisis, a need to accommodate many people in affordable, easily buildable and replicable dwellings. A similar situation drove the development of twin solutions in European countries, resulting in the unification of how residential units look today.

With all the above perfectly justified by economic and social factors, I still get carried away with a thought - what if our cities were a collection of one-of-a-kind buildings instead? With each structure looking utterly different from its neighbour? An urban scape from a dream, escape from the monotony? Would it add more colour to the urban environment or create confusion in navigating the city without clear distinctions between various functions? And more interestingly, would we be capable of creating such variety in the age of mass reproduction and high demand for construction?

< From top: Granaries in Spanish province Galicia; Photographs of the village at the foot of the Bandiagara cliff, Dagan tribe, Sudan; Minature silos structures on Ivory Coast. (featured in 'Architecture without architects' by Bernard Rudofsky)

Today, Rudofsky’s idea of ‘architecture without architects’ or, more broadly, design without designers takes on a new meaning and leaves us with crucial questions on originality and authorship. This relatively recent discovery is AI [Artificial Intelligence] generated imagery which has quickly become a new obsession or, in some circles, a source of despite and genuine worry about the future of all kinds of creative professions.

In 2015, when most of us mortals were bouncing to the rhythm of Uptown Funk, AI scientists broke through a kick-starting development – automated image captioning. From that moment on, the computer would be able to describe the scenes from any image in a human-like language. This invention soon triggered the discussion on the mirrored operation where the images could be generated from the captions – later called prompts. However, the ambition didn’t stop at retrieving the images from an already existing dataset, similar to what you might be familiar with from the Google Image Search engine. Instead, the AI would generate a new scene that has not yet existed - a completely new fantasy. This process started with asking the AI for impossible scenes such as ‘elephants flying over the New York skyline or ‘tiny whale having dinner with Donald Trump’ – you get the idea. Soon this technology evolved into DALL-E and Mid Journey – two pioneering platforms now used as a medium for creating art pieces and new design concepts. AI image-generating revelation was welcomed with split interest, owe and anxiety over a possibly endangered future role of a designer. Technology has already threatened professions such as graphic designers and digital artists, which could become reduced to AI-generated proposals in the future. As expected, a critical thought formed in the process.

Everything we create is empowered or inspired by the collection of our experiences and knowledge, as Henri Bergson would rightfully notice. At the same time, our thinking is limited to confinement of this past, broad but limited references, which consciously or subconsciously influence our views and ability to create the novel. Hence, it can be argued that ‘new and original doesn’t exist per se but that every invention is an interpretation of an old through the lens of today. Speaking in architectural language, you might observe that many of our projects look alike. It is indeed challenging to develop an entirely new typology as we are somewhat limited to the bounds of particular architectural styles and morphologies we are well familiar with. In contrast, despite being initially trained on the existing images, the AI sets free from constraints of, e.g., educational templates and allows itself to generate completely new combinations, motifs and styles. Still, in the diapers, DALL-E or Midjourney remain a 2D tool. However, since speedy development since the 1950s (when the first speculations on artificial brain design), the capability of AI could soon expand into 3D. Combined with 3D printing, gaining the popularity in the industry, could AI generate unexpected, new designs and at the same time perform its construction? Maybe

Ai generated design for residential tower. Mohamad Rasoul Moosapour through Midjourney. (Designboom)

Cookie-cutter design. Office buildings in Washington DC, Glasgow, and Ho Chi Minh City respectively from left.

today, this question sounds like a dream (or a nightmare), but 50 years ago, AI wasn’t even a term, yet today it continues to surprise us with its capabilities!

Now the actual question is, how do we feel about it? Throughout history, machines managed to ease the hardships of human labour, allowing for the expansion of human intellectual endeavours, which in return triggered the development of yet new technology (basically a Perpetuum mobile). But is the design and creative field something we would like to give up and trust in the hands of the machine? And to what degree, if at all? The act of artificial pro- and repro-duction carries a danger of detaching the pieces of architecture from our culture and tradition, depriving the pieces of what Walter Benjamin calls an ‘aura’ – the unique presence of an object in time and space of its creation, and, one might want to add, an image of the creator behind it. What is indeed the future of the design, and what role you and I will play in it?

1. Rudofsky, Bernard. 1964. Architecture Without

Architects: A Short Introduction to Non-Pedigreed

Architecture. New York: Doubleday.

From the editors

RAU MUỐNG, NOSTALGIA, AND WAR

WordsTuyen Le ImagesMary Le & Tuyen Le

I recently traveled to Kassel in Germany for documenta fifteen, an art festival that happens every five years and occupies Kassel for 100 days. Nhà sàn collective and bà bầu air, Hanoi-based art collectives, hosted my stay at their queer guesthouse called ưh ưh 22 for a duration of five days. Behind the guesthouse was a luscious garden named vườn di cư (migrating garden) by the artist Tuấn Mami. A garden full of vegetables that the local Vietnamese community has donated to the artist to build a green haven full of produce. Frankly, in the middle of Kassel, having a garden flourishing with Vietnamese vegetables is a true depiction of a migrant dream. The familiar sight of the vegetables I grew up eating has lend me a hand to my childhood memories, to meal times with my family, and it has rekindled of my nostalgia for quê hương (homeland).

Migration happens when our home is not concurring with our path anymore, and while some have the choice, and some do not. In our home away from home, we identify ourselves with the food that we cook, consume, and enjoy. As an international student, migrating from Vietnam to Iowa (the United States), and now to Delft, I share the awareness that local supermarkets do not offer the kind of vegetable that keeps our string tied to our roots. Among the stories I have heard growing up, and Vietnamese people I have interacted with while living in different places, the string that leads these lives back to their homeland, is through their backyard garden and food. Therefore, the migrating garden shows how displaced Vietnamese communities can stay connected to their roots, directly through the roots of their vegetables. And with that, by soothing our taste bud, the longing for comfort can be cured.

There are deep remnants of the Vietnam War in how the rest of the world views Vietnamese cuisine. Due to this war, families had to make an important decision, whether to stay or flee, bringing with them their pain from the forced migration, and their hopes for a better life in a foreign land. They planted the seeds they have smuggled with them inside their limited luggage, and through these offerings, nostalgia reliably offers one thing, ESCAPE, away from the uncertainty of the future, and towards the permanence of the past. Some dynamic ways of how the displaced Viet people express their nostalgia is when they open restaurants that are proudly adorned with symbols and decorations that depict Vietnam through the owner's lens. Additionally, they open grocery stores that meticulously source homeland’s products to support their diasporic community.

Mary Le is a close friend of mine and she introduced me to her father, No Le, who is standing proudly in front of his own migranting garden in Des Moines, Iowa, United States. (Mary Le, 2020)

For instance, the bowl of phở that you eat at a restaurant in Rotterdam has been fortified based on the Southern Vietnamese style. For historical context, September 2nd of 1975 became Vietnam's Independence Day, it marked the fall of the Southern Democratic regime based in Saigon (the part of Vietnam that is supported by the United States), and the birth of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, also known as the unification of the North and South of Vietnam. With most families who fled were from the South of Vietnam, they brought the taste of Southern phở with them. Hence, the rest of the world today is more familiar with the taste of Southern phở, with a lot more spice, darker broth color, and extra side vegetables. Within the culture that Viet people portray in how they make food, there is always a hint of nostalgia. Especially, the sincere hope that each plate they share with their peers can keep the dream alive, the dream of one day they can recreate these things at their hometown/childhood kitchen. In order to legitimize their attempt at the flavor of Vietnamese food, we also need to understand the limited resource one would have in order to embody the flavor, and the kitchen that is used to process these ingredients also matter. Even if those memories were painful, even if the past was not great, the comforting feeling of the past echoes through our journey in the present, and this familiarity can keep us grounded as we are approaching the unknown future.

Homesickness always leads me to crave for rau muống xào (pan-fry water spinach). It brought me great joy when my mother prepared this simple dish for our family meals, but the vegetable is nowhere to be found in stores or Vietnamese restaurants here. Before 1945, rau muống was used to feed farm animals (mostly pigs and cows), and after 1975, it was a definite struggle for everyone who stayed behind or could not leave, so they started to use these vegetables in cooking by pan frying it with garlic, or simply steaming it. When its seed was smuggled across the ocean, there were even politics behind it, as told by Viet folks who crossed borders to the US. The way you process the vegetable at your home kitchen can indicate your origin (Northern or Southern), and this could bring either comradery or scrutiny onto your family amongst the Vietnamese migrant community. In the modern time, it has become a staple dish in Vietnamese meals and my favorite vegetable to feed my nostalgia with, albeit the difficult past that water spinach has carried through its journey.

Around April, Mr. Le would start propagating his garden near the kitchen, where the light comes in the most during the afternoon. (Mary Le, 2020) While I was living here in my bachelor years, Mr. Le was my rau muống supplier free of charge, as all he wanted was to share the fruits of his labor to friends and families alike. Mr. Le was a soldier during the Vietnam War, who survived a bomb explosion, and was a war prisoner for two years. He managed through many disparities during his escape journey through Cambodia, Malaysia, and finally, settling down in Iowa, United States. With most seeds considered to be invasive species according to the States’ agricultural standard, he keeps his vegetables in pots to prevent native soil erosion or overgrow. He takes on the migrant garden as a way to feed his nostalgic tendency for quê hương, as well as establishing his roots again in a foreign land.

As I am writing these words, I recognize my own privilege of never experiencing the pain of being displaced by war or conflict, but I am doing so by choice, and with the hope that these choices would lead me to my dream. But what is the value of this dream when we voluntarily unplug ourselves from our heritage and culture, in order to make sense with our current place of residence, and make sense of our future self? Romanticizing the past through the agency of nostalgia can bring comfort, regardless if this certain comfort can mean holding onto painful memoribilia, and feeding a certain delusion that takes us away from the sensible truth. The Vietnam War separated a nation and scattered its people all over the world. And while these people are planting roots in a new place (sometimes not of their choosing), they are also commemorating their past memories, one garden at a time.

Abdelfatah, Rund and Ramtin Arablouei. "The Nostalgia Bone." Throughline. NPR, 2021. Espiritu Gandhi, Evyn Lê. “The Refugee Settler Condition: Vietnamese Diasporas in Guahan and Palestine.” The Funambulist no. 43, 2022. documenta. "lumbung". documenta-fifteen.de. 2022

This garden consists of the vegetables that caught my sight, smell, and taste from the migrating garden at documenta, they were rau muống, rau kinh giới, rau tần ô, bầu, and ớt sừng trâu (water spinach, Vietnamese balm, crown daisy, Vietnamese gourd, and horn pepper). A reunion scene is happening as the gourds finding their way back to their comfort space. (Tuyen Le, 2022)