MONTREAL INSECTARIUM

MUSEUM METAMORPHOSIS

MONTREAL’S NEW INSECTARIUM GIVES VISITORS AN INSECT’S-EYE-VIEW OF THEIR SURROUNDINGS.

PROJECT Montreal Insectarium, Montreal, Quebec ARCHITECTS Kuehn Malvezzi / Pelletier De Fontenay / Jodoin Lamarre Pratte architects in consortium TEXT Olivier Vallerand PHOTOS James Brittain

If you expect to see traditional displays of pinned insects and scores of vivariums when visiting Montreal’s freshly rebuilt Insectarium, you might be surprised. Similarly, for those looking for a striking architectural object, the experience overturns expectations. Rather than focusing on traditional displays or architectural fireworks, the new building is much more about creating a new type of museum journey—one with memorable spaces and lessons that follow visitors long after their visit.

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 1 BUTTERFLY GARDEN 2 HALL 3 LUNCH AREA 4 LABYRINTH 5 ALCOVES 6 TÊTE-À-TÊTE GALLERY 7 COLLECTION DOME

8 RAMP 9 GRAND VIVARIUM 10 CREATIVE WORKSHOP 11 PLANT PRODUCTION 12 LABORATORIES 13 TECHNICAL SPACES

The transformation of the Insectarium resulted from one of three competitions held in 2014 to rethink Montreal’s constellation of nature museums. Founded in 1990 as an addition to the botanical garden, the Insectarium had since grown into one of the world’s largest museums devoted to insects. The competition followed a cultural and scientific project—branded as the Insectarium’s “metamorphosis”—to reimagine the museum’s mission and museological approach, going beyond the simple display of insects. The team selected for the project included Berlin-based Kuehn Malvezzi and Montreal-based Pelletier de Fontenay and Jodoin Lamarre Pratte. For lead design architect Wilfried Kuehn, the competition represented a rare and exciting opportunity to integrate the team’s experience in landscape, architecture, exhibition design, and industrial design. The brief, he notes, was written in a comprehensive way that already paid attention to the different scales of design.

The winning team’s proposal built on the museum’s desire for an innovative immersive experience for visitors. The concept is centered around an understanding of biophilia that aims to guide visitors through experiencing the world as if they were insects. By better understanding insects and learning to live with them, visitors are encouraged to become agents of change for ecological sustainability.

As is often the case, following the competition, budgetary and technical revisions meant that the project was heavily modified—it opened five years later than Montreal’s 375th anniversary, for which it was initially planned. But by strategically compressing the plan and tightly overlapping functions, the team succeeded in retaining the original concept, and only shortening the exhibition path by 14%, while diminishing the overall footprint by 50%.

The visitor’s journey starts outside, with a sloped pollinator garden leading down to the entrance. New greenhouses rise above the ground plane, but most of the building is hidden underground, with only a soonto-be vine-covered dome hinting at the expanse of the experience awaiting beyond the greenhouses.

Once inside, an unadorned concrete reception area welcomes visitors, filled with light and opening towards the landscape. The bright space is a palate cleanser, before visitors are invited to enter a dark, tight corridor—built from reinforced sprayed concrete to mimic the rammed earth construction originally planned, and immediately calling to mind an ants’ nest. If obvious, the metaphor certainly works: you are being called to experience your environment as an insect. After a few months, the material is already somewhat smoothed out by the touch of visitors, lending it an organic feel that echoes the natural environment of insects. Hubert Pelletier, one of the design architects, explains that the team conducted

OPPOSITE Visitors are led though a twisting tunnel, reminiscent of insect burrows. ABOVE A series of a half-dozen cave-like rooms invites people to experience the world as if they were insects; in this case, travelling like a grasshopper between blades of vegetation.

ABOVE AND BELOW The underground spaces culminate in a dome-topped exhibition space, where preserved insects are arrayed by colour in a top set of cases, and by evolutionary characteristic in the cases below. OPPOSITE A ramp leads visitors to the butterfly greenhouse, where they are invited to encounter a range of live insects.

extensive on-site experimentation to develop a wall construction that would wear well over time, rather than being merely a surface effect.

The tunnel then opens to six cave-like rooms, each with different sensorial experiences aimed at conveying how insects perceive the world differently than us. Here again, the architecture is an integral part of the scientific knowledge being shared, through a floor that vibrates, ultraviolet lighting showing patterns on the floors, an upside-down space, and tight passages. Even though they are fully integrated in the architectural experience, these spaces feel primarily geared towards young children, who are more prone to wholeheartedly accept the invitation to play and spend time engaging with the spaces than adults.

Visitors then exit the tunnel to a more traditional exhibition room, though with a twist. At the centre of the room, immersive vivariums with curved glass fronts allow visitors to have a 180-degree view of live insects. On the room’s walls, live feeds from cameras inside the vivariums project videos of both the insects and the visitors’ faces, for the benefit of those who might not be comfortable getting so close to the live insects.

Visitors then gradually ascend to the dome-roofed room glimpsed from outside—a contemplative space quite different from the initial twisting tunnel, even if built from the same sprayed concrete. A double row of display cases encircles the walls, a visual treatment calling for different scales of reading. The top row organizes insects following a chromatic circle, while the bottom row contains thematic displays. Here again, the experience is completely different from what people might expect from an exhibition: the focus seems to be on the overall impact of the space as much as the individual vitrines, creating a surprisingly versatile space that successfully accommodates both quiet moments and the activities of excited children.

The final space, reached through a long ramp and sliding doors, is the walk-in vivarium housed in a large greenhouse. In a suddenly hot and humid environment, visitors are welcomed by swirling butterflies as well as other insects on an elevated ground, many corralled into small openair display pens. Along one wall of the glass house, leaf-cutter ants parade along a long, root-like path between their nest and a feeding ground of leaves and flowers.

Unlike many other nature museums, this one does not hide the mechanical systems behind fake trees or in ponds. The design team has chosen instead to highlight the complex integration of the different systems necessary for this artificial environment to survive in Montreal’s climate—a great challenge for a building aiming for LEED Gold. On view as well is an adjoining production greenhouse, where the habitat plants for the insects are grown. The only thing hidden is the complexity of the underground network of offices, exhibition spaces and technical services creating the artificial topography of the greenhouse.

The decision to make everything visible also underscores the research mission of the museum. An app designed for visitors to identify the insects they see in the greenhouse—and later in their everyday life—facilitates scientific exploration, while also helping staff map how insects navigate the space, allowing for a better management of the collection over time. The app is part of a maximally inclusive approach espoused by both designers and curators, where visitors can find different levels of engagement that break the traditional scripted museum experience.

The Insectarium’s management team was thrilled to work with architects open to a co-design process: something they saw as essential to their cultural and scientific project. In response, the architects moved away from typical big, formal gestures, to create instead what Hubert Pelletier describes as “a series of experiences.” Very few informational exhibits are present in the museum, rather, the architectural experience itself creates meaning and becomes the exhibition. Insectarium director Maxim Larrivée is already planning further collaborations with the same design team when the exhibitions need updating. Both the client and design teams emphasize how they took risks with this project. They hope visitors will be as excited as they were to put their fears away, and become better acquainted with their small neighbours.

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ABOVE The butterfly greenhouse, shown here, adjoins a production greenhouse, where most of the plants needed to sustain the insects in the museum are cultivated.

CLIENT ESPACE POUR LA VIE | ARCHITECT TEAM KUEHN MALVEZZI—WILFRIED KUEHN, JOHANNES KUEHN, SIMONA MALVEZZI, NINA S. BEITZEN, YU NINAGAWA, JAN IMBERI, REBEKKA BODE, THOMAS GUETHLER, BERENICE CORRET, CHRISTIAN FELGENDREHER, VALESKA HOECHST, ANDREA BAGNATO. PELLETIER DE FONTENAY— YVES DE FONTENAY, HUBERT PELLETIER, YANN GAY CROSIER, NATHANIEL PROULX JOANISSE, NICOLAS MUSSCHE. JODOIN LAMARRE PRATTE ARCHITECTES— NICOLAS RANGER (MRAIC), CHRISTINE NOLET, ROXANNE ROCHETTE, CATHERINE DEMERS, JOANNIE QUIRION, GERMAIN PARADIS, SYLVAIN MORRIER, MARC-ANTOINE BOURBEAU, NATHALIE GRÉGOIRE | STRUCTURAL NCK | CIVIL GÉNIE+, LÉVIS | MECHANICAL/ELECTRICAL DUPRAS LEDOUX | LANDSCAPE ATELIER LE BALTO, BERLIN | CONTRACTOR KF CONSTRUCTION | SIGNAGE KUEHN MALVEZZI WITH DOUBLE STANDARDS, BERLIN | MUSEOLOGY LA BANDE À PAUL | SUSTAINABILITY/LEED CIMA+ | AREA 3,600 M2 | BUDGET $31.78 M (EXCLUDING MUSEOLOGY) | COMPLETION APRIL 2022

TOWARDS HOME

TEXT Leah Snyder PHOTOS Mathieu Gagnon © CCA

THE CCA’S CURRENT EXHIBITION EXPLORES NORTHERN INDIGENOUS CONCEPTS OF HOME.

ABOVE Visitors are greeted by a replica of a porch from a Northern home, designed by Sámi architect and artist Joar Nango and Métis architect and exhibition designer Tiffany Shaw. OPPOSITE A radio on the kitchen table of a matchstick home is tuned to Uvatinni Uqaalajunga / J’appelle chez nous / I’m Calling Home, a trilingual broadcast by Inuk artist Geronimo Inutiq. The idea of home is adaptable, meaning many things to many people. It also has meaning to other mammals, birds, reptiles and insects who construct their dwellings instinctually, by way of hereditary genetic knowledge. As humans, we wrap our inherited culture and traditions around us in the form of structures, as well as with objects that are functional, decorative or both. Our structures—and what we place in them—buffer us from the elements, and provide an emotionally imbued space inside of which we gather together.

The current exhibition at the Canadian Centre for Architecture (CCA), / Ruovttu Guvlui / Towards Home, poses questions around what home is, and for whom. It considers how Indigenous concepts as well as Indigenous design—from inspiration and aesthetic to process and construction—offer considerations that can, in the words of the curators, “support northern Indigenous forms of sovereignty shaped by an understanding of home.” The collaborative curatorial project between Indigenous and Settler curators (Joar Nango, Taqralik Partridge, Joceyln Piirainen, and Rafico Ruiz) acknowledges that “the work of deepening architecture’s engagement with Indigenous designers and their communities needs to above all centre the knowledge and experiences of being at home on the land.” The exhibition is also part of the CCA’s commitment to a “living land acknowledgement,” an initiative

that takes the form of discussions, research, and installations that work towards “fostering affirmative relationships with Indigenous and other peoples across Tiohtià:ke / Mooniyang / Montréal” and beyond.

The exhibition opens by welcoming visitors into a replica of a porch from a Northern home. Sámi architect and artist Joar Nango, who worked with Métis architect and exhibition designer Tiffany Shaw on the installation, describes the porch as an “important space for objects for daily activities” and for “storage for all of the tools connected to the use of the land.” In the corridor of the CCA, it acts as it would when connected to a house: as a threshold from which to transition between inside and out, a catch-all area for seasonal clothing, and storage for hunting and fishing gear. A kettle and a box of Salada tea sit ready to be put into use at the arrival of a guest. The installation is like the vestibule or mudroom from any residential structure, where objects from our day-to-day eddy into a comforting pool of familiarity.

From there, the exhibition spreads out into six other galleries. In the middle gallery, the work of artist Geronimo Inutiq (Inuk) provides the initial soundscape that filters into the other rooms, an important auditory component that adds an affective resonance. Uvatinni Uqaalajunga / J’appelle chez nous / I’m Calling Home is produced as a tri-lingual Northern radio program that “aims to bridge diverse communities.” In a model of a government-issued matchbox house, chairs positioned around a radio are an invitation to sit and take time to listen. From throat singing to rap performed in Inuktitut and English, along with a weather report and an artist Q&A, what is heard are the contemporary voices of the North. The work addresses how dialogue connects people to others, as well as to the land in the North, even when at a distance from it while living in urban centres in the South. The sound of traditions previously banned—as with women performing throat singing—are a sensual accompaniment through areas where it filters in, prompting an inquiry to unpack: why were/are Indigenous women promoted as a threat to the colonial apparatus, and why were/are Indigenous women displaced from their homes?

Inissaliortut / Making Room, by Inuit artists Laakkuluk Williamson Bathory and Tagralik Partridge, assists in the unpacking.

In this profound and powerful piece, larger-than-lifesize images of the two women, standing barefoot and clothed in blue and red shifts adorned with beadwork, are projected onto individual plywood screens that reside in two corners of the northwest gallery. They deliver astute assessments of how we arrived at the current state of housing crises among Indigenous communities in the North, as well as homelessness among Indigenous populations in cities in the South. Laakkuluk lists

what has been taken away (self-determination / food sovereignty / culture / children / women) itemizing the replacements (capitalism / food insecurity / unemployment / heartache / loss). She details a Settler solution for dealing with the symptoms: And out come the calipers and the calculators to problem-solve the problematization And suddenly there’s a capital city filled with people hired to solve the problems.

“Colonization is a pyramid scheme,” Tagralik concludes. It is by design, they explain, that when Indigenous children, women and men (as well as other species) become inconvenient and cease to serve the market economy, a system, process, or structure is implemented to enforce their removal. Similar to the Inuit, the Sámi also endured the banning of traditional subsistence and cultural practices: their drums were burned as part of a campaign towards Christianization, and restrictions placed on their nomadic existence, tied to reindeer herding. State oppression and the displacement of the Sámi still continues.

Although the destructive symptoms of colonization and capitalization are underscored in the exhibition, / Ruovttu Guvlui / Towards Home provides visitors with multiple pathways forward. In the north gallery, where the soundscapes pool together, some of the most aesthetically lush work in the exhibition can be found. The gallery contains the results of the CCA’s Futurecasting: Indigenous-led Architecture and Design in the Arctic workshop series, an inter-generational gathering of Inuit, First Nations, Métis, and Sámi designers co-curated by Inuk architectural designer Nicole Luke. Printouts mounted to the wall document the participants’ reflections and illustrate their design processes, which take form as stunning prototypes and maquettes. In Rivière aux rats by Robyn Adams (Métis), strips of intricate beadwork, with a palette that suggests land and water, sit atop a cross section of soil. “[O]ur culture and

values are embedded into the built world,” writes Robyn. In Lost Natures by Naomi Ratte (Anishinaabe), red beads traverse a river-shed topography carved from ash wood. The colour can be interpreted as an alert— or as representing the blood of most animal species. “The land is pharmacy, kin, story, grocery store, ceremony, food, medicine, and time,” writes Naomi. It is “wendaaji’owin—that which sustains life.”

There are several large structures installed throughout the galleries, including the tent-like shelter Nuna, by artist asinnajaq (Inuk) in conversation with Tiffany Shaw, which invites a moment of rest and contemplative reflection. A series of drawings of life in Nunavik produced by Inuk artist Tuumasi Kudluk hangs alongside Nuna, presenting insight into how the land can provide aesthetic cues when thinking about shelter. In the opening corridor, Inuk curator Jocelyn Piirainen has assembled works from the Winnipeg Art Gallery-Qaumajuq’s collection, including an early drawing by Shuvinai Ashoona. Family in Tent (2003) depicts an archetypal domestic scene: parents and their children with the remnants of a shared meal, a Red Rose tea box nestled between them while they lie on a communal cot.

This extensive exhibition has many strengths, yet its setting creates some constraints. Joar’s Sámi Architectural Library, a collection of books and artifacts that “adapts and expands as it moves from place to place” with the intent to “reconnect architecture to the land” elicits some of these challenges. In 2019, it was installed in the main entrance of the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, as part of their exhibition of contemporary Indigenous art, Àbadakone / Feu continual / Continuous Fire. To prepare the hides that would be used in the installation, tanning areas were set up outside of the National Gallery. When walking towards the Gallery from my own home, on unceded Anishinaabe Algonquin aki (land), the aroma of the fires could be smelled from blocks away. Each visitor entering through the doors carried the scent in with them, altering the sensory experience of the building. Once installed, the hides continued to emit the scent inside. Yet in the CCA configuration, that smell is almost imperceptible—a missed opportunity to more powerfully evoke the land beyond our structures.

What can be gathered from / Ruovttu Guvlui / Towards Home is the idea that home is not a construct fixed to location. Rather, home can be understood as a set of values—considering our impact on the land, acknowledging how we share space with non-human neighbours, modelling reciprocity in our relations. As we carry these values forward, spaces—along with the buildings and communities that exist in them—will change for the better, for all.

OPPOSITE TOP Inissaliortut / Making Room, by Inuit artists Laakkuluk Williamson Bathory and Tagralik Partridge, takes form as a conversation about effects of colonialism on First Nations. OPPOSITE BOTTOM Nuna, by asinnajaq in conversation with Tiffany Shaw, is a shelter that evokes the four elements. ABOVE Joar Nango’s Sámi Architectural Library includes mix of books, research documents, maps, videos, and artifacts, all set amidst makeshift furnishings.

Leah Snyder is an Ottawa-based digital designer and writer. Snyder writes about culture, technology and contemporary art, and contributes regularly to Heffel, the National Gallery of Canada, and other Canadian art publications.

HUSTLE CULTURE DOESN’T WORK AT HOME

TEXT Christian Maidankine

AN ARCHITECTURE GRADUATE STUDENT EXPLORES HIS DISSATISFACTION WITH TWO YEARS OF ONLINE EDUCATION.

OPPOSITE A drawing by Azrieli School of Architecture and Urbanism student Dominic Dumond entitled A Strange Classroom explores the world of virtual learning. “I wanted to convey a message [about] how our traditional learning space has morphed into something quite bizarre and incomprehensible,” says Dumond. The drawing won an Honorable Mention in the Azrieli School’s 2021 Murray & Murray drawing competition.

Architecture school has always been a hectic place filled with young, driven students. Every member of my class entered the program looking to become an architect, without any real understanding of what the profession entails. We quickly learned the pace, expectations, and rigour that an architectural education required. Before the pandemic, our culture of high-intensity work was maintained on campus, including in long, unhinged all-nighters spent in studio, and when a deadline was finally over, we could return home to recover.

Like every other aspect of the world, the COVID-19 pandemic completely overturned our education in March of 2020. I immediately felt how the way we had been operating would not work at home. I would sit at my dining room table with my laptop for hours a day, eventually having to make space when it was time for family dinner. School and home very quickly mutated together, creating an environment which was not suitable for either.

Our school was forced to quickly adapt to using online platforms, a process which was quick for students, but a challenge for some faculty. Their frustrations strained our education, fostering an even more stressful situation. As everything around us was shut down, I ended up constantly working on my various classes and studio projects. There weren’t really any genuine breaks, and it quickly resulted in exhaustion. After the 2020 winter semester ended, I began my co-op term in a single-person practice based in Toronto—a welcome change from the time in school. But starting in a work-from-home situation, and only communicating through emails and phone calls, felt quite isolating. There was no opportunity for natural conversation or casual learning— asking questions felt like I was being bothersome, and feedback became constrained to certain points in the day. Opportunities to visit project sites emerged as the most exciting and rewarding moments: I could see a detail I drew on AutoCAD being constructed in front of me. These experiences—as well as the patience and understanding of the architect I worked with— solidified my desire to pursue licensure as an architect. Even in a global pandemic, I was able to enjoy what I was doing. I entered my final year in the fall of 2021, in another online semester. Isolated in my bedroom—this time in a shared apartment in Toronto— there was a similar pattern to the year before. I spent countless nights producing something to present to a screen of blank squares. I would get some feedback from the professors and guest critics, say thank you, close my laptop, and that was it. There was little to show for these projects— not even poster boards or a model. Just some digital imagery, and done. By the time I began my final semester, like many of my peers, I had little energy left. While we now had the opportunity to have in-person studios, it was too little, too late. I could barely focus on completing the required work, yet it also felt like one of the busiest and most hectic periods of my education. I had to take one assignment at a time, finding it very difficult to think weeks in advance to plan some sort of schedule. I kept telling myself that I just needed to finish, despite feeling drained, uninspired, and dissatisfied. I will be continuing in my master of architecture in the fall; many of my friends are getting full-time positions in firms across the country. Most students in my pandemic cohort are continuing in architecture. However, we are exhausted by the experience of our education, and are entering the profession with an outlook shaped by this schooling. Education during the pandemic highlighted the importance of boundaries between work and life: having access to studio spaces when needed, but also having the opportunity to sometimes work from home is crucial to maintaining balance. People can be passionate about architecture, but without breaks, burn-out can happen suddenly, even among students and young professionals.

UNSTACKING THE DECK

TEXT Elsa Lam

ABOVE A double deck of cards created by Winnipeg-based Lisa Landrum celebrates Manitoba’s women architects.

In 2011, a student asked architect and historian Lisa Landrum, an associate professor of architecture at the University of Manitoba’s Faculty of Architecture: why were women absent from the architectural history curriculum?

It launched Landrum on a decade-long research project to redress the gender balance in her teaching—and in the design history of her adopted home province. One of the results of that work is a double deck of playing cards released this spring.

The cards celebrate early women architects who studied and worked in Manitoba, from Ethelyn Wallace, the first woman to graduate from UM’s architecture program, in 1932, to Gerri Stemler (née Holland), who became the first woman president of the Manitoba Association of Architects, in 1998. It also includes women who forged careers in the 1960s and 1970s, such as Lana Kinoshita (née Cheung), an early graduate of the UM interior design program—founded by Joan Harland, who also figures in the decks.

One of the two decks includes photos of the women; the second features capsule bios. A research booklet provides sources and prompts for further investigation. “Players can invent games to match women with their story, play any regular card game, or use them for trivia and as mnemonic devices,” writes Landrum.

The research for the cards was conducted in collaboration with Marieke Gruwel, an art and architectural historian with the Winnipeg Architecture Foundation. Much of the material was gleaned from the university’s yearbooks, which yielded both dignified cap-andgown portraits, as well as evidence of comparative bias: while male graduates from 1932 were characterized as clever and ambitious, Wallace is deemed to have a “nice smile.” The yearbook speculated that Patricia Kettner, who obtained her B. Arch sixteen years later, wanted to marry a millionaire. “In fact,” notes the biography on the cards, “she immediately joined GBR, designed schools, hospitals […] became the third woman to register with the MAA in 1953, then moved to Nelson, BC, to work with a women-led firm.”

A trio of special cards open doors towards further action needed to address equity and inclusion. The Jack of Hearts highlights the need to go beyond gender boundaries, noting that the UM Campus Gay Club was launched around the same time as the Women’s Studies program, in 1971. The Queen of Hearts points toward Indigenous Sovereignty, putting the spotlight on the recent founding of the Indigenous Design and Planning Students Association. The King of Hearts turns a lens towards racial diversity, looking back to the 1950s, when barely a handful of visible minorities had studied architecture at UM.

The cover art on the cards incorporates the painting “Breath of Life,” by Ojibwe artist Jackie Traverse. The art depicts an Indigenous woman encircled with blossoms and dragonflies. “The woman in the painting may be exhaling her last breath, wishes or words,” writes Landrum, “but her breath embodies a powerful circle of life, transformation and transcendence.”

Likewise, Landrum sees the cards as bridges towards transformative inter-generational conversations. “Most of the women in the deck are no longer living,” she says. “But they’re still speaking to us, if we care to listen.”

CANADIAN ARCHITECT INVITES ARCHITECTS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS TO ENTER THE 2022 AWARDS OF EXCELLENCE

ENTRIES DUE SEPTEMBER 12

Deadline: September 12th, 2022 Architecture project entry fee: $195 * Architectural photo entry fee: $75 *

Since 1967, our annual national awards program recognizes the architectural excellence of projects in the design and construction phases.

Submissions will be accepted in PDF format, up to 12 pages with dimensions no greater than 11” x 17”. Total file size is not to exceed 25MB. There is also the option to submit a video up to two minutes in length. This year, we are also presenting the fourth edition of the Canadian Architect Photo Awards of Excellence, open to professional and amateur architectural photographers.

Winners of the architectural project and architectural photo competitions will be published in a special issue of Canadian Architect in December 2022.

For more details and to submit your entry, visit: www.canadianarchitect.com/awards