Spots in Shots - Narrating the Built Environment in Short Films

Mélanie Mélanievan vander derHoorn Hoorn

SPOTS SPOTSININSHOTS SHOTS

Narrating Narratingthe theBuilt Built Environment EnvironmentininShort ShortFilms Films nai010 nai010publishers publishers

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8 Between Fact and Fiction Understanding the Short Architecture Film

26 From Moving Snapshots to Refined Artworks The Development of the Short Architecture Film

46 Festivals, Websites, Museum Collections Where Does the Short Architecture Film Call Home?

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64 FEEL Captivating Imagination

114 THINK Challenging Reality

164 WANT Gripping Propositions

From Moving Snapshots to Refined Artworks The Development of the Short Architecture Film

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It is a wonderful book​ — ​excellently designed, lavishly illustrated​ — ​and it transports you back to one of the most important early architecture films: Hans Richter: New Living. Architecture, Film, Space (Janser & Rüegg 2001). Sequences of film stills evoke the dynamism of moving images; close-ups highlight key moments. The authors discuss Die Neue Wohnung (CH 1930, Hans Richter, 28:16) → 01 as an original, striking and humorous hybrid of art, advertising and manifesto, and as a portrait of the vibrant closing years of the 1920s when the film, commissioned by the Swiss Werkbund (SWB), was shot and screened. The book is even more complete than the film itself​ — ​ an extraordinary achievement. Few other works from the history of the short architecture film have been as exhaustively and vividly documented as this one has.

Designers were fascinated by film right from the early years of the new medium. How could they use film to say something about the built environment, and about their role in shaping it? Over the course of the twentieth century, the short architecture film has enjoyed various periods of flourishing, but to date the historiography of this unique genre consists of unconnected puzzle pieces: conference proceedings and special issues of magazines with contributions from various authors about isolated periods (Penz & Thomas, eds, 1997, Keim & Schrödl, eds, 2015, resp. Bauwelt, ed., 1987, Archithese, ed., 1992), introductions to architecture film guides (Bonnin, ed., 1982 & 1983, Covert, ed., 1993), individual chapters in more general publications on film or cultural history (Elsaesser 2005 & 2011, Hediger & Vonderau, eds, 2009, Dähne 2013), articles about specific filmmakers, passages about film projects in architecture monographies, difficult-to-trace online publications…. A complete and coherent account has yet to be written, but there’s nothing to get in the way of a first exploration. Broadly speaking, what are the milestones in the history of the short architecture film? Imagine that the book by Janser and Rüegg about Die Neue Wohnung was the first in a series of twenty or thirty​ — ​which other films or film series should the other books cover?

First Steps Film evolved out of photography in the closing years of the nineteenth century. New devices could record a series of still images on celluloid very smoothly, and projectors could then play them so fast that the human eye perceived them as moving images. What the very first filmmakers mainly recognized in the new medium was a reliable and objective way to register and reveal reality faithfully (Weihsmann 1997:9). Technical limitations still weighed heavily, and as long as the recording itself required so much effort, the language and aesthetics of film remained an inaccessible luxury. The very earliest ‘motion picture snapshots’ were moving yet soundless and colourless images that lasted less than a minute. While they may have captured everyday life, they weren’t especially lively; the comings and goings in the city sometimes looked remarkably monotonous (Dähne 2013:86).

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were sick, and architects could heal them with their expertise (ibid.416, 420).

The films followed a familiar pattern in which voice-overs talked viewers in simple language through a narrative, against a background of illustrative image sequences. If matters still threatened to become too abstract, animations or filmed models could clarify them (Goergen 2015:118, 140). Under the guise of education, it was mostly a question of promoting development that had in fact been set in motion long ago. Participation or critical thinking were not expected of viewers (ibid.139–40). The predictability of urban design films in those years was not down to technical limitations (ibid.145).

This was proven by a handful of documentary filmmakers who, despite their bulky and awkward cameras, did not flinch from taking to the street and engaging with socio-political subjects.

In the United Kingdom, documentaries were frequently deployed from the 1920s onwards to inform and educate disadvantaged socio-­ economic groups, and also from the 1930s onwards to provide a platform for critical opinions​ — ​‘to dramatise the plight of the less fortunate members of British society […] and the indifference of the official eye to social problems’ (Bullock 1997:53). Depending on the subject, such ‘social campaigning films’ were screened in army barracks, factory canteens or leisure centres, or in cinemas as part of the supporting programme. They were also screened to ‘street-corner audiences’ thanks to travelling cinemas that moved from one neighbourhood to the next in wagons (ibid.53–5). An excellent example is Housing Problems (UK 1935, Arthur Elton & Edgar Anstey, 14:36) → 07, which was commissioned by the Gas, Light and Coke Company.15 Although it was not an independent production, residents of the slum districts of Southwark spoke openly and without censorship about their desolate living conditions. Other residents then appeared in their brand-new apartments and explained the effectiveness of modern housing. This use of interviews ‘from real life’ was very innovative. The message was: ‘We’re not there yet but look at what we’ve achieved; these developments are encouraging’.16 A similar optimism infused many films made during and after World War II​ — ​ Charley in New Town (UK 1948, John Halas & Joy Batchelor, 8:25) → 08, for example: the first of a seven-part educational series of animation films by the Central Office of Information, charged with the job of instilling confidence in post-war reforms among the British public. Charley, a cheerful chap who could be anybody’s next-door neighbour, guides the viewers by bike from urbanism in Part 1 to healthcare, insurance and education in later episodes. Charley in New Town, made for the Ministry of Town and Country Planning, sings the praises of the New Towns designed to reduce post-war over-­crowding in major cities. The argumentation is based on a contrast between the past and present, but in a looser way than in previously cited examples: Urbanism is something about which residents have something to say, and Charley cycles along whistling as he comments: ‘I’m telling you​ — ​it works out fine; just you try it!’17

15 Housing Problems can be viewed on the DVD Land of Promise: The British Documentary Movement, 1930– 1950, released in 2008 by the British Film Institute.

16 See also Stollery 2013 for an expanded discussion of Housing Problems.

17 Animated series often celebrated suburbs as ideal residential environments. The most famous examples are Duckburg, invented by Carl Barks in 1944 and frequently filmed in the 1980s by Walt Disney, and Bedrock, home to the Flintstones, created in 1960 by William Hanna and Joseph Barbera.

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18 See Schuldenfrei 2015:235–6 for a complete film list, and Schrader 1970:16–9 for a filmography up to 1970, with summary descriptions of the works.

The Expanding Airport can be viewed on the DVD The Films of Charles and Ray Eames, released in 2000 by Pyramid Media in Santa Monica.

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19 Beatriz Colomina describes how ‘[d]esigners, architects, and artists were […] playing a crucial role in the evolution of the multiscreen and multimedia techniques of presentation of information’ (2001:7–8). The Eameses were pioneers with their multimedia, multiscreen installations Glimpses of the USA (US 1959, Charles & Ray Eames, 12:00) and Think (US 1964, Charles & Ray Eames, 14:00).

In both, the development of architecture and media is inextricably woven together: ‘[T]he Eameses treated architecture as a multichannel information machine. And, equally, multimedia installations as a kind of architecture’ (ibid.22).

20 See also Colomina 2001:15.

21 Zesduizend inwoners can be viewed on the DVD Bewegende landschappen, released in 2013 as part of the publication of the same name (De Caigny & Van Impe, eds, 2013).

22 Another example that was intended to stimulate reflection and participation among a broad audience, and caused quite a stir as a result, was a trilogy for the 1954 Triennale in Milan, commissioned by the designers Giancarlo De Carlo, Carlo Doglio and Ludovico Quaroni: Una lezione di urbanistica (IT 1954, Gerardo Guerrieri, 12:14), La città degli uomini (IT 1954, Michele Gandin, 12:35) and Cronache dell’urbanistica italiana (IT 1954, Nicolò Ferrari, 11:51).

See: Ciacci 1998 and 2003.

In the United States the designers Charles and Ray Eames made regular use of animation in the dozens of short and powerful info-clips that they made from the early 1950s onwards, often larded with ‘humor to get ideas across’ (Ostroff:xiv). Animation allowed them to present a large amount of information concisely (Schrader 1970:10). Sometimes the link with architecture or ­urbanism is hard to detect, but in The Expanding Airport (US 1958, Charles & Ray Eames, 9:28) → 09, for example, they explain the growth of modern airports and end with the design by Eero Saarinen for Washington Dulles International ­Airport.18 In addition, their film work is known for its technique of ‘information overload’: The Eameses combined image and sound (and sometimes even smell) from various sources on the same screen, and sometimes on various screens at the same time.19 It was then down to the viewer to ‘rapidly sort out and prune the superabundant data’ until just ‘the disembodied Idea’ remained (ibid.7).20 Examples of films about the built environment are Photography and the City (US 1969, Charles & Ray Eames, 15:00), about the influence of photography on the development of cities, and Cable: The Immediate ­Future (US 1972, Charles & Ray Eames, 10:23), about the impact of television and new media on living environments (and containing ‘A Wired Home’, which looks suspiciously like the reality of some decades later). With these films and exhibitions, the Eameses sought to democratize knowledge. Interesting facts had to be made accessible, and everybody had to be able to go ­exploring to generate new knowledge: ‘Citizens were to function as researchers who collated and combined evidence,’ and films were intended ‘to ­inspire members of the public to make their own films’ (Schuldenfrei 2015:5).

Empowerment is also what the maker of Zesduizend inwoners (BE 1958, Luc de Heusch, 18:30) → 10 had in mind.21 Just like elsewhere, film was deployed in post-war Belgian urbanism in a variety of ways, from ‘propaganda disguised as documentary’ to ‘critical staging packaged as fiction’ and ‘wellwrought and singular opinion pieces’ (De Caigny & Van Impe 2013:13). The intentions of makers and clients ranged from ‘winning souls and creating support for urbanism’ to ‘raising awareness, awakening the conscience’ and​ — ​less often​ — ​forcing the audience ‘to reflect and ultimately to adopt a position’ (ibid.14). The latter was more the exception than the rule​ — ​in Belgium no less than elsewhere​ — ​and that is what makes Zesduizend inwoners unique in its genre.22 The Department of City Planning commissioned De Heusch to make this film for the Pavilion of Urbanism at the 1958 Brussels World’s Fair (Dehaene 2013:43, 45). It is notable that he did not disseminate any readymade opinions. Instead, he presented urbanism as ‘work done by people’ (ibid.47–8)​ — ​and used a fictional story to do so: the discussions among the residents of a small community concerning the mayor’s development plans on a vacant site. The viewer is confronted with the thoughts of all sorts of parties involved, but he does not remain a passive observer. Instead he is encouraged to join the debate and adopt his own position. The issues addressed in the story have not lost any relevance sixty years later (ibid.51):

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disciplines: ‘Television could be everywhere and nowhere: its information structures undermined traditional logics of place while giving rise to new forms of territoriality and new modalities of social and political control’ (ibid.627–8). It was difficult to counter that with the same tools, because television sets were expensive and not user-friendly. When Sony’s Portapak appeared on the market, Ant Farm and cohorts seized their opportunity.

The new video equipment combined ‘access and portability […] at a reasonable buy-in’; it was ‘a kind of zero-degree technology, a starting point for new models, new vocabularies, new interventions’ (Seid 2004:24). Designers started to explore it and experiment with it, and let their voices be heard.

Portapak and other video systems were part of design practice: as an accessible, experimental and subversive medium to draw attention to the pressing nature of all sorts of issues in a light and focused manner. Like other design collectives from the 1970s, and earlier with the Eameses, Ant Farm merged architecture and media, both of them ‘mobile and multichannel’ (Scott 2008a:17).34 The films by Ant Farm did not go unnoticed for long. In the 1979 Catalogue: Slides, Film, Video & Books by Environmental Communications (1979), three of the 24 presented videos were made by Ant Farm. The two Californian architecture collectives, both founded in the late 1960s, soon recognized each other as like-minded spirits. Initially, Environmental Communications (EC) mostly created thousands of slides in and around Los Angeles. These were sold as a themed series, complete with commentary, to museums, cultural institutes and universities at home and abroad. The collective later ventured into photography, film and video, but it distinguished itself largely through its special attention for image distribution. Very rapidly, the studio on the beach in LA became a vibrant gathering place for experimental artists and architects, which frequently included Ant Farm. The venue soon boasted a gallery and bookstore, hosted film screenings, festivals and other events, and joint experiments with image material and equipment were conducted on free evenings (Wasiuta & Sánchez 2013:117). EC wanted to offer a counterweight to the traditional media. Broadcasting time on radio and television was scarcely available to new media, so as a film distribution company EC largely saw itself as a ‘provisional conduit, […] to fill in the gap, and act as a catalyst for further change’ (Ross 1979:60–1). To EC, distribution was much more than marketing: it was a subversive strategy against institutional stagnation. Slide collections and audio-visual material were ‘the emerging centre of institutional, pedagogical power’, so there was little option but to infiltrate directly, in the hope that ‘altering this image cortex would transform pedagogy and spark a revolution in student consciousness’ (Wasiuta & Sánchez 2013:118).35 EC perfectly understood the power one could acquire by combining production and distribution. Both aspects took on another form in the digital era that started to emerge in the 1990s.

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33 Media Burn can be seen on the DVD Ant Farm Video, released in 2003 by Facets Video in San Francisco.

34 See also Scott 2008a:23 and Scott 2008b:629.

35 In 2014 the curators Adam Bandler, Marcos Sánchez and Mark Wasiuta organized the first retrospective of the collective, under the title Environmental Communications: Contact High, at the Arthur Ross Architecture Gallery in New York. It was shown at the Chicago Cultural Centre in 2015.

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They all wanted an academic discourse, while I wanted to reach a broader audience.’ And thus the AFFR was born, but after a first edition with some twenty films on the programme, it charted its own course since 2000.

Despite the time-consuming organizational matters and limited funding, the foundations for what the festival has become today were laid in the early years of the new century. In 2001 and 2003 Den Hollander programmed the festival himself. It helped enormously that he was also making films at the same time​ — ​in those years, for example, Redelijke eisen van welstand (NL 1999, Jord den Hollander, 50:00) and De Grootste Architect van Nederland (NL 2003, Jord den Hollander, 1:40:00). He was invited all over the world to show his films and he came into contact with architecture centres. ‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea for you to start a festival?’, he would suggest​ — ​and other organizations increasingly invited him to curate events: in Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Warsaw, Budapest, America…. He got to know the people behind other festivals better​ — ​Brizzi for instance, who by then had managed to bring a large group of people to Florence each year: ‘It was more about the technology than whether or not they were good films, but Brizzi was definitely onto something: the new technologies made us look differently at reality, and architects could deploy those technologies to tell stories. You could move through buildings in one go and visualize things in totally different ways. I found that exciting, but too one-sided. I simply wanted to tell good stories about the built environment that made viewers enthusiastic.’

The AFFR programme for 2003 clearly shows how this line of thinking could be translated into a concrete programme: ‘There you see the type of film that does not deal directly with architecture but rather with life in the city. For example, Global Village by Johan van der Keuken, Night on Earth by Jim Jarmusch, Metropolis

by Osamu Tezuka, High Treason by Maurice Elvey. But the programme also included a few hardcore architecture documentaries: Frank Lloyd Wright by Ken Burns, Concert of Wills: Making the Getty Center by Albert Maysles. And Michael Blackwood, who filled his days interviewing big names​ — ​not really artistic, but architects loved it. And then Lucia Small, who made a film about her father: My Father the Genius. And a short like From My Window by Józef Robakowski, a wonderful film. He lived in an apartment in Łódź for twenty years, and every day he filmed a scene from his window.

He simply shows what he sees​ — ​people fall in love, sit on a bench, argue with one another, cars crash, a street sweeper passes​ — ​and all those fragments form a story; a deeper understanding of everyday life because of the same view of the same place.’

This eclectic programming was accompanied by all sorts of ‘side events’: encounters with makers, excursions, open-air screenings, an exhibition.

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14 For example, Sofia Mourato, who founded the Arquiteturas Film Festival in Lisbon in 2013, was a trainee at the ADFF, founded by Kyle Bergman.

AFFR had carved out a clear identity in a short space of time​ — ​but the spiritual father was starting to lose his enthusiasm. Disheartened by the time-consuming fundraising and organizational hassle, he threw in the towel in 2003.

This is a familiar pattern among small festivals, and it often marks the end. But the AFFR had put down roots, and two years later people asked Den Hollander to pick up where he had left off. Urban designer Wies Sanders, ‘a fantastic organizer’, was the second name associated with the festival, which she restructured within a few years into a professional organization. Den Hollander could devote all his attention to selecting films, and the relaunch in 2009 was a milestone: an opening in a theatre, more than one hundred films on the programme, and all sorts of events around it. ‘In one fell swoop we set the standard: Just look at all you can see!’ Internet meant that you could communicate much more rapidly with everybody in the world, and that simplified the organization considerably.

And it turned out that there was a huge group of people who were making films about the built environment. That year saw the screening of Megunica (IT 2008, Lorenzo Fonda, 1:23:00), for example, a documentary about graffiti artist Blu, who had travelled from one major city in South America to the next: ‘That was exactly what I wanted: the type of film that touches on architecture, and that involves everybody. It was a huge success. People said: “That takes us into that society and triggers our curiosity.”’ It was also around the time of the premiere of Koolhaas Houselife (FR 2008, Ila Bêka & Louise Lemoine, 58:00), an architecture documentary with the cleaning lady instead of the architect in the leading role. People became accustomed to the idea ‘that documentaries could be more than just the filmic equivalent of a coffee table book’. Filmmakers also increasingly approached AFFR of their own accord.

Den Hollander could select from a wider range, and group films according to theme: social discontent for example, or utopian thinking, failed new towns, eagerly anticipated grands projets…. Moreover, the AFFR of 2009 was also a meeting point for the organizers of architecture film festivals from all over the world. They shared ideas about programming and possible collaboration and laid the foundations for a tight-knit international network​ — ​something that benefitted not only festivals but also filmmakers.14 With their architecture films they are not guaranteed a big audience, but the current fifteen festivals provide just as many podiums for showing their work​ — ​and that in turn makes it easier for them to secure funding.

After four successful biennial editions from 2009 to 2015, the time was ripe in 2017 for the next step in the professionalization of AFFR. Attracting some 10,000 visitors to each event, the festival needed greater continuity. With the new and dynamic director Joep Mol at the helm, the organizers therefore announced that from 2018 on the festival would take place annually. Another important move was the founding of the King Kong Business Club: a networking programme for companies and

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Il Girasole A House Near Verona Country CH

Directors Christoph Schaub & Marcel Meili

Year 1995

Duration 16:23

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The Sunflower. That’s the name of the lead performer after whom this film is named. A remarkable summer residence, set on a hill in the Po Valley, which can revolve 360 degrees on its axis over the course of a day. It looks like a bulky floating weather station in the landscape, but we also get to see inside, with close-ups of the Bakelite buttons that set the heavy cogs of the revolving machinery in motion. And the house is often inhabited: in earlier years by a young man and woman, and ‘now’ by the construction engineer’s daughter and the caretaker in their declining years. A female voice-over​ — ​the daughter’s alter ego​ — ​reminisces about the past and brings the special universe contained inside this unique building to life.

Angelo Invernizzi designed the revolving house in 1935 for himself and his family. He was fascinated by technology and moving building components, and he used them to create a Gesamt­ kunstwerk. His circle of friends included designers, furniture makers and artists who created special fabrics, crockery, hinges and locks and mosaics, and even a park and swimming pool.

The house escaped the attention of architectural historians for a remarkably long time. Then architect Marcel Meili visited it by chance in the early 1990s and was so impressed that he encouraged his housemate, filmmaker Christoph Schaub, to make a film about it. They had little difficulty securing funding from the Swiss Federal Office of Culture, the municipality and the canton of Zurich and the Swiss Ikea Foundation, and shortly afterwards they visited Invernizzi’s daughter, Lidia Invernizzi-Vicari, who recounted all sorts of stories about the house. Since the pair had initiated the project themselves, they enjoyed total freedom in making the film. Two aspects were of particular concern: translating an architectural experience into film, and presenting a true story as a fictional account.

How do you give a sense of scale and depth, and of the succession of spaces? That’s what the filmmakers asked themselves. How can framing, camerawork and direction contribute? They faced a daunting task, especially because Invernizzi’s house is so unusually big that it is difficult to capture on camera.

Human figures turned out to be vital in giving an impression of

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its proportions and structure. Schaub and Meili deliberately placed them like ‘dolls’ or ‘pieces of furniture’ in the spaces: reading at a table, leaning against a balustrade or walking from one room to another​ — ​more as suggestive shadows than as fully formed personalities.1 The filmmakers also had to resolve a discrepancy. What makes the house unique is its revolving mechanism, but its movement is scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, and just as difficult to capture on film. Gradually it dawned on them that what mattered to Invernizzi was not the continuous rotation, but the succession of different positions in the landscape. Here, too, humans were essential, because the changing relationship between house and surroundings only becomes visible through human activity. ‘Lifting my eyes from my book, each time I would see a new vista carved from the landscape,’ recalls the daughter in the film: ‘There were always new views and in a different 1 Interview with Christoph light, although we had not perceived any Schaub on 8 December 2017. movement.’ Movement as a sequence of 2 They appeared in 2014 a DVD entitled Christoph separate images. This principle allowed on Schaub: Films on Architecthe turning movement of the house, the ture, released by Scheideg& Spiess. The titles of the human memory and the film editing to ger short films are: Place, Function and Form. The Architecture of link up seamlessly.

Gion A. Caminada and Peter ‘How can you communicate archi- Zumthor (CH 1997, Christoph 24:10), White Coal tecture without psychology getting the Schaub, (CH 1997, Christoph Schaub, 23:54), The Art of Justificaupper hand?’​ — ​Schaub and Meili asked tion​ . ​Jürg Conzett (CH 2002, themselves. How can you prevent a filmed Christoph Schaub, 14:03), Shift in Meanings​ . ​Meili, building from expressing the ‘psychic con- The Peter (CH 2002, Christoph 14:16) and Brasilia​ . ​A stitution’ of the director or camera­man? Schaub, Utopia of Modernity (CH 2007, The answer: by using static camera­work Christoph Schaub, 26:13). latest architecture and maintaining a distance from the orig- Schaub’s film Architektur der Unend(CH 2019, Christoph inal story in the narrative form. The source lichkeit Schaub, 85:00) will be released in 2019. text was the daughter’s story:

‘We were not out to paint a portrait of Invernizzi. What was interesting were the memories of the daughter, who loves and worships him. Her story turns the house into a container filled with feelings and memories​ — ​of a life, a way of living, an atmosphere, a state of mind.

That’s very different to when you psychologically push yourself into the foreground as a director.’

The filmmakers did not deviate from the historical facts. Many modernists actually were fascinated by technology, Invernizzi and his family did spend their summers in the house, and his study was indeed destroyed by the fascists. But Schaub and Meili turned all this into a compact and well-structured story that they told through the voice of an outsider.

Il Girasole became a success, and it hasn’t aged in almost a quarter of a century. Schaub built up a reputation in the world of architecture films, making no fewer than eight between 1997 and 2008​ — ​four on the work of major international architects.2 Yet he never repeated the recipe of his debut, because that approach creates a distance that does not suit every building and every architect. Schaub and Meili separated their narrative from the true story by taking the words of the daughter and giving them another voice. The young woman and man who live in the house remain anonymous. Viewers may wonder who that man is they see reading, and that woman they see writing. Is he the construction engineer? And is that his daughter when she was young? The ‘real’ daughter and caretaker play themselves in the final scene, but they too appear as extras in their own house. What is fiction and what is reality?

Until you realize that exact names don’t matter​ — ​because Il Girasole creates space for the imagination, and you are free to interpret everything that is left open.

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This Was Not My Dream Country BR

Directors Gabriel Kogan & Pedro Kok

Year 2014

Duration 4:18

Not much happens in This Was Not My Dream. Serene black-­ and-­white images show Casa Redux, a modernist villa by Brazilian office Studio MK27. Captured in bright sunshine with sharp shadows, the house looks sleek, clean-lined and uncluttered​ — ​ exactly what you expect in a classic architecture film. Then a woman appears, slim and elegant in a black dress, totally at one with the villa. She does not seem to be ‘living’ there; rather, she struts about like a mannequin. Then a male voice-over changes­­​our perception of the place. Calmly, yet also aggrieved and indignant, he snarls that this house 1 Studio MK27 already had experience with film. signalled the end of his relationship. ‘It some Founder Marcio Kogan made was the dream of my ex-wife, Suzana. She a number of films with Lea van der Steen: Peep (BR 2012, insisted on straight lines. Thin, light and Lea van Steen & Marcio Kogan, for the Brazilian pavilion modern, without any ornaments.’ He utter- 4:21) at the 2012 Venice Architecly hated it​ — ​‘cold, dull, without life’​ — ​and ture Biennale, Cat (BR 2012, Lea van Steen & Marcio Kogan, dreamed instead of a ‘beautiful neoclas- 4:29) and Modern Living (BR Lea van Steen & Marcio sical project’ with ‘velvet curtains, golden 2013, Kogan, 3:55). This Was Not metals, leather sofa, marble floors, plaster My Dream was screened at a side-event called Time, Space, mouldings, crystal lighting’. The marriage Existence during the 2014 didn’t survive the architecture project: ‘It Venice Architecture Biennale. was either me or the house.’ So Suzana 2 Interview with Pedro Kok and Gabriel Kogan on 25 June remained behind, blinded by passion: ‘She 2018.

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thinks only about the house. She’s in love with it and cares for it more than for any living human being.’

Although the makers of the film are both architects, Gabriel Kogan also works as a journalist and Pedro Kok mostly as an architecture photographer and filmmaker. In the buildup to a side-event of the 2014 Venice Architecture Biennale, Studio MK27 gave them carte blanche to make a film about Casa Redux.1 It wasn’t exactly a leap into the dark, because a year earlier the two had made Casa Cubo (BR 2012, Gabriel Kogan & Pedro Kok, 2:21) for the same office. That film is a smooth sequence of impressions backed by jazz music, but on this occasion the makers wanted more: a real story. Drawing on personal experience, they came up with a script within a month and a half. Kok knew from home how much the design of a house can strain a relationship. As a designer, Kogan has to deal with the same every month. Two people can differ considerably in their perception and appreciation of architecture. Kogan is still amazed at the popularity of neoclassical architecture among the elite in his home city of São Paulo. That contrasts sharply with what he considers to be meaningful architecture. ‘What are the aesthetics that we consider “right” and “wrong”?’, Kogan and Kok wondered.2 And so they drew on their observations and experiences to compose the tale told by the fictional home-owner.

‘The narrative is completely invented but we liked the ambivalence that you don’t know if it’s the real owner who is telling the story.’ They had the script translated from Portuguese into English and, in the meantime, filmed the house, with actress Ana Paula Motta in the role of Suzana.

When casting the voice-over, the filmmakers called in outside help and received three different sound recordings: one in Portuguese and two in English, because they wanted to make versions of the film in both languages. The first English recording was fairly neutral, but the second was so stunning that it dictated the rest of the project. Professional actor Stéphane Cornicard emphasized certain words and moments and was thus able to get so much more out of the text than the authors could ever have imagined. ‘He enacted

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the narration​ — ​infused it with a lot of energy, and also bitterness and anger’. Kogan and Kok didn’t hesitate for a moment: it had to be this. What Cornicard achieved with his voice was so spectacular that they abandoned the idea of a Portuguese version of the film, because the difference between the two interpretations of the text would have been too great.

In terms of imagery, This Was Not My Dream is heavily influenced by the ‘very strict framing’ of classical architecture photography. But when combined with the fictional narrative, it results in a highly original film. The narrator​ — ​and with him the viewer​ — ​can no longer distinguish between the house and his ‘personal, emotional trauma’. He has become the victim of a clash of architectural preferences, and his feelings influence his perception of the place. The film illustrates the massive difference a story can make, provided it is read by a virtuoso narrator.

This Was Not My Dream evolved in a ‘very collective and collaborative’ manner. Marcio Kogan, founder of Studio MK27, came up with the final scene. In it the narrator​ — ​still with the voice of Cornicard, but played by an employee of the architecture office​ — ​draws his dream house: out go the flat roof and huge glass sliding doors, and in come neoclassical pediments and colonnades. For the architecture office, that ironic ending

was a pretty brave move. Although the film did have ‘a promotional aspect’, the ending was, to put it mildly, ‘twisted’.

In Casa Cubo, their first joint film, Kogan and Kok tried ‘to show architecture at a scale that cannot be represented by other media​ — ​trying to grab details, decoration, furniture, daily life….’ With This Was Not My Dream, however, they wanted to introduce ‘a dimension that architectural representation usually hides: the more sensory aspects’. They felt ‘the importance and difficulty of a good script’ but their project took a turn they could not have anticipated. ‘One component was completely new to us: the emotion that came through narration.’ The film was a success, ‘on various devices and for various audiences’. And thus the makers had achieved their goal: ‘to understand how architectural space can be represented, find new ways to integrate feelings and storytelling, and reach a broader audience’.

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Ocean Hill Drive Country DE

Directors Miriam Gossing & Lina Sieckmann

Year 2016

Duration 20:34

Ocean Hill Drive has all the ingredients for a horror film. Ominous night-time shots of desolate streets in an American suburb, eerie lighting conditions, unrecognizable sounds, and after two minutes a despondent female voice: ‘We bought our house eleven years ago, when my husband got a new job in the city of Boston…. We’d just got married…. It was 1 Interview with Miriam Gossing and Lina Sieckmann a dead-end street….’ And then: ‘I remem- on 10 October 2017. ber the first time it came to our home….’ 2 Ocean Hill Drive is the We never find out exactly what ‘it’ is. The third of four films that the pair made about the built environfilm consists of mysterious, suggestive, ment. The others are: Sonntag, 2 (DE 2014, protracted images with flickering light- Büscherhöfchen Miriam Gossing & Lina Siecking effects, a mounting sense of nerv- mann, 12:51), about a house in which the occupants decoratousness, and every now and then the ed each room in the style of a country; Desert Mirvoice-­over that tells of an unnamed phe- different acles (DE 2015, Miriam Gossnomenon that threatens to drive people ing & Lina Sieckmann, 11:41), about commercial wedding from their homes. The mood is oppressive, chapels in Nevada; and One Real (DE 2017, Miriam alarming and fraught. What’s going on Hour Gossing & Lina Sieckmann, here? What are these strange shadows 11:57), about escape rooms.

In 2016, Ocean Hill Drive won that become steadily more intrusive? the German Short Film Award Best Experimental Film of How does a familiar living environment for the Commissioner for Culture and Media, the Best Contriturn into a haunting decor? bution to the North Rhine-­ It’s as though a huge stroboscope Westphalia Competition at the Short Film Festihas been pointed at the film locations. International val Oberhausen, and the Best Initially the signs are barely perceptible, Documentary at the Istanbul International Architecture and like illuminated windscreen wipers that Urban Film Festival.

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sweep through the homes, but they become increasingly more brazen before finally penetrating into the surrounding landscape. This rhythmically changing light intensity that Miriam Gossing & Lina Sieckmann captured on film comes from wind turbines. The pair read on the internet that the ‘shadow flicker’ of their blades caused dizziness, queasiness and confusion among people living nearby. Fascinated by that phenomenon, they headed to Kingston (Massachusetts) to interview people and film the effect. They knew the experimental flicker films from the 1960s, such as Arnulf Rainer (AT 1960, Peter Kubelka, 6:46) and The Flicker (US 1966, Tony Conrad, 30’), but they still had no particular genre in mind for their own film.

During the interviews, the victims constantly used expressions from horror films to describe their flicker experiences. All of them spoke in detail about ‘the first time’​ — ​for instance that panicking children would phone their parents at work and try to describe ‘it’, and that ‘they said it was coming from upstairs … but nothing was there….’ It then took a while before ‘it’ happened again, but there was no doubt about it this time. ‘I could distinctly hear it coming from there.’ And a few days later from the basement. The menace was capricious and elusive and it totally unnerved residents. More and more rumours circulated, but people close to the victims responded with incredulity and incomprehension: ‘They were calling us liars. […] A lot of people in town think you’re crazy.’ Gossing and Sieckmann saw in the recurring ‘poltergeist rhetoric’ a ‘fictionalization of personal memories’ based on film references.1 That became an important point of departure for their film.

The duo always work with analogue 16mm film.2 To edit fifteen to twenty minutes of film, they shoot three or four times that amount of raw material, which is costly. So they meticulously limit what appears in the frame. ‘It can sometimes take us more than twenty minutes to set up a 30-second scene.’ Almost nobody appears in the shots. If they had pointed their camera directly at residents, they would never have gained access to their private spaces. That makes Ocean Hill Drive a highly ‘intimate’ film. ‘An interior reveals so much about the

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Lunar Economic Zone Country UK

Year 2014

‘Welcome to Shenzhen! Welcome to the Lunar Economic Zone!’

A futuristic megalopolis in totally over-the-top neon colours appears: a vast port with thousands of ships and containers, an endless bridge flanked by clusters of skyscrapers, all competing to be the tallest, and finally a sky-high lift, along which hundreds of parachutes glide towards the ground. Perched on a hill is a disproportionately large Buddha statue, and the airspace is filled with apes, dragons, astronauts and red zeppelins with screaming yellow letters: ‘2028 Happy Year of the Monkey!’ Above the din of droning helicopters, rolling drums and cheering crowds, the lyrical commentator continues: ‘Welcome to this extraordinary Mid-August Parade to celebrate the first delivery of the lunar minerals. The greatest event the world has seen since the Beijing Olympics!’

Lunar Economic Zone was Zhan Wang’s graduation film at the Architectural Association in London. The project theme for the year was global economics and its impact on urban environments. Wang was particularly interested in the origins of products, which can scarcely be traced because of the complexity of production chains. He wanted to follow the route back to the raw materials that are at the source of those chains.

For example, the rare minerals used to make expensive components in lots of electronic devices, an industry where China holds a monopoly, with a ninety percent share of the market.

How does the possession of such raw materials influence the development of a city? To illustrate that, 1 Interview with Zhan Wang Wang came up with an imaginary lunar on 7 May 2018.

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Director Zhan Wang

Duration 4:23

mineral and staged a mega-event to mark the first shipment of it to the port of Shenzhen​ — ​or rather: in what Shenzhen might one day look like. The shape and height of the mountains in Wang’s film are similar to those in the ‘real’ city, also located on the coast. But beyond that, Wang’s Shenzhen is more a suggestion than a faithful depiction: ‘It could be Shenzhen, but it’s not based on what’s already there.’1 The architect-filmmaker first determined the shape of elements that were crucial to his story: the port, the ships, the bridge, and the kilometres-tall ‘space elevator’. He made detailed drawings which he precisely calculated and compiled into a book, ‘to make the city more authentic and believable’. He then assembled them together into a coherent cityscape: ‘For example, the space elevator in the middle of the radiating streets: that’s quite totalitarian.’ The city includes nods to existing ‘crazy buildings’ such as Rem Koolhaas’s stock exchange building in Shenzhen and CCTV Headquarters in Beijing, the Shun Hing Square skyscraper, which was the tallest structure in Shenzhen for fifteen years, and the Sheraton Hotel in Huzhou, or the ‘giant donut’, positioned on the bridge, which acts as a gateway to the city.

The building blocks were clear, Wang knew what he wanted to say, so the only question was how to say it. Chinese propaganda posters from the 1960s and 1970s offered an answer in terms of imagery: ‘Their graphic language was very uniform, always brightly coloured. Many of them were about science and technology​ — ​instructional, but also very aspirational​ — ​to make you believe in a brighter future.’ Wang combined

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Kammermusik Audiovisuelles Gebäudeklangporträt Country DE

Director Katharina Blanken

Year 2015

Duration 8:43

A window lights up against a black background; inside the room, a guitarist starts to strum. Two windows further, another light is switched on, and two clarinettists start to practice their scales. In the room above a cellist appears, next to her a harpist, and above them a flutist. Then an alto flutist and a trombonist. As the din of instruments grows louder, a soprano begins to work on vocalises. In the fifteen rehearsal spaces behind the three rows of five windows, a concert is about to commence. Then the instruments fall silent and the façade darkens. A light appears in a room on the right on the second floor; a pianist plays an A chord, makes eye contact with the first violinist who, one floor up, starts to tune his instrument, soon followed by fourteen other musicians. The lights dim again, and after a brief moment of silence the conductor appears in the middle and gives the starting signal for Patternitur, a composition written by Gabriel Denhoff specially for this film.

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Kammermusik is an ‘audiovisual building sound portrait’ that Katharina Blanken filmed as her graduation work at the Robert Schumann Hochschule in Düsseldorf. It struck the future ‘visual music’ artist that all conservatoires had one thing in common: their rehearsal spaces always turn their back on the world. To start with, they are located as far as possible from houses to avoid disturbing residents. This is a requirement imposed on them. In addition, musicians tend to isolate themselves from everybody else: ‘Many of them practice at night, when there are as few people as possible in the adjoining rooms and not many ears on the corridor. They often even draw the curtains.

Apart from a few extrovert sopranos who like to leave their windows open and fill the whole courtyard with their voice, musicians usually like to present their art only when it’s totally “perfect”. Before that, in the “not ripe for concert” phase, they prefer to remain invisible and unheard.’1 As a foil to that perfectionism, Blanken wanted to sing the praises of imperfection. Hadn’t she often walked past rehearsal rooms late at night on her way to the recording studio in her own institute? Like a voyeur, peering into the asymmetrical mosaic of illuminated rooms from which the sound of a muffled trumpet or some more audible singing occasionally emanated, she let her fantasy run riot. What if you could turn those musicians on and off like on a mixing desk? Could you bring them together in a way that ‘didn’t sound cacophonous and disharmonious, but that created harmony, like in an orchestra’? How could Blanken convey the unique quality of such a fleeting moment and her fascination for the transparent skin of the building in a linear narrative on film? To investigate that, she filmed a try-out. Six musicians received a series of chords with a certain number of beats per minute and the request to improvise within that structure. They played simultaneously, 1 Interview with Katharina but without being able to see or hear one Blanken on 14 May 2018.

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another​ — ​guided by nothing but a metronome. Their ensemble music in Prequel Kammermusik (DE 2013, Katharina Blanken, 3:54) is totally fictitious; it was devised and edited subsequently by Blanken.

Like a virtual conductor, she turned the sound recordings off and on, mixed them, and darkened windows with black cut-outs to suggest the switching on and off of lights.

How can you film an orchestra that is not an orchestra as though it really is one? The try-out confirmed the scale of the technical challenge. But Blanken wanted to add more layers: various perceptions of time and a deepening of the relationship between the building’s interior and exterior. After explaining to the school management how her film would make an excellent showpiece, she was able to borrow all equipment free of charge and even received a small grant for additional costs. The total came to 2,500 euros for a project that involved more than thirty people…. Two composers helped her to select the instruments that would give the performance the ‘character of a concert’. Just like in a ‘real’ orchestra, they were arranged according to pitch: high soprano, violin and flute at the top, cello in the middle, contrabass and alto flute at the bottom.

A microphone was ‘planted’ in each rehearsal space, carefully directed at the instrument for the best sound quality, but invisible to the camera. The network of cables ran along the corridor and through the window of a sixteenth room to a broadcast truck outside in the courtyard. The only concern during shooting was that the camera positioned on a 2 At architecture film festiflat roof across the way might wobble or vals it is sometimes not even and sometimes an move, but six technicians still had their selected award winner: Best Interhands full for five hours during the com- national Film at the Sydney Architecture Festival 2015, plicated sound recording process.

Best Experimental Film at International Kammermusik amounted to an CINETEKTON! Film and Architecture Festival audiovisual portrait of the school of music 2016 in Puebla.

in Düsseldorf. At festivals it was sometimes presented as an architecture film and sometimes as a music video, art film or experimental film.2 It is not only a film for the heart​ — ​‘an artwork to enjoy and simply take in’​ — ​but also a film for the head. For it leaves the viewer to wonder. How is that possible? How can musicians play that without seeing or hearing one another?

Who’s switching the light on and off? Is it all ‘fake’? And that’s precisely what Blanken had in mind: ‘It starts with tuning the instruments. That the pianist and first violinist seek eye contact with each other is complete nonsense; so too is the light turning on and off, and the second piece being played without a conductor. I wanted to trigger the viewer, make him wonder if it was all possible. Because it’s impossible of course.

I wanted to probe the limits of what could be made, what could be played, to encourage the viewer to pose questions​ — ​but without putting the questions to him, because they are different for everybody.’

If Blanken had opened all the windows and let the musicians play a normal concert, it would not have made the viewer think.

Instead, she appears to take the musicians out of their isolation for a shared composition, but the impossibility of the situation only emphasizes their isolation. The conductor even vanishes for the second half. The filmmaker wanted to push to absurd lengths what she had noticed: namely that musicians, when they practice, find themselves totally isolated​ — ​and that this hidden phase of practice actually possesses an impressive quality. In contrast to other ‘visual artists’ who create whole works on the computer, Blanken sees her own perspective as a ‘very documentary’ one. And indeed, her constructed, fictitious story conveys something very true about the place she portrays in her film.

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Place des cercles Country ES

Director Luis Úrculo

Year 2007

Duration 2:32

A camera makes jerky movements as it films a darkened wall with flashing letters in 1980s graphics. The text reads: ‘Place des cercles. Paris 2007. International architecture competition for the construction of Les Halles market’, followed by credits.

The camera then pulls to the right to show, in a grainy resolution, a recording studio with a trestle table. Four pairs of hands unroll aerial photos of Les Halles. Next, over the photos they lay sheets of drafting paper on which circles appear in stop-motion and then turn into cylindrical-shaped pieces 1 Interview with Luis Úrculo of a model. Then the camera turns to a on 21 December 2016. wall that is screening a simple three-di- 2 That is the central theme of second film in the trilogy, mensional computer visualization of the the Epsilon Euskadi (ES 2010, Luis scheme. A young woman walks across Úrculo, 2:55), about the Motor Racing Technology Innovathe site taking photographs. She gets on tion and Research Centre in Gasteiz, Spain, a builda bike and weaves her way between the Vitoria-­ ing that is largely inaccessicylindrical buildings, looks around smil- ble because of fears of spying. Úrculo wanted to show ‘the ing, takes a snapshot of the viewer and beauty of not understanding the whole thing’. leaves him behind as she cycles off.

Architect and visual artist Luis 3 Inaccuracy played an important role in the first instalment Úrculo made his film debut in 2007 for of the trilogy, AIC​ . ​Automotive Intelligence Center (ES 2010, the architecture duo Mansilla & Tuñon. Luis Úrculo, 4:44), in which a He had hardly any budget, but plenty young woman tries to measure a building with her body (by of artistic freedom. It struck Úrculo that counting her steps, comparceiling heights to her own ‘architects want to be very contemporary ing height, and so on). This is a nod in their designs, but very traditional and from Úrculo to architects who always want to give everything conservative in their documentation. They a dimension.

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are afraid of taking risks by making something too artistic.’ In Place des cercles and in a 2010 trilogy, Úrculo ‘questioned what architectural documentation is’. By then, computer visualizations were already the norm, but he found 90 per cent of them uninteresting, and he wondered: ‘What are you trying to tell me? Just take photos; don’t make videos!’1 Because what sets film apart from photography is the dimension of time, and for Úrculo film is only justified if it tells a story, irrespective of whether it is fictional or not. Digital visualizations often lack a story, and that’s why he expects they are soon forgotten. Software quickly looks dated, especially if visualizations lack content. According to him, analogue presentations are far more timeless.

Mansilla & Tuñon did not give the filmmaker any particular instructions, but the competition regulations specified a duration of 90 seconds, and the film had to show the complete building by day and night, both in model form and in a 3D visualization. Úrculo took those requirements into account but also offered something contrary. He kept Place des cercles as analogue as possible, filming almost everything in a single room, avoiding almost all editing and introducing no special effects at all.

One question that has preoccupied Úrculo for years is how to suggest complexity without showing a building in its entirety.2 After all: ‘Many architecture videos are very boring because they are too obsessed with showing everything — which is impossible. If you try to do so, you kill the magic of architecture. It’s not sexy to show the whole thing. Buildings remain much more mysterious if you show just one detail, or tell just one thing. It adds desire to the architecture.’

On the basis of that conviction, Úrculo makes films that are often deliberately ‘inaccurate’ and blurred. 3 It is with good reason that he keeps the 3D visualization in Place des cercles very basic. The woman on the bike is actually sitting on a home trainer in front of the screen that is showing the digital fly-through. She has rehearsed all the movements to make it

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30 Years of (Short) Architecture Films Some References Festivals 1980–1992 Bordeaux, Festival International du Film d’Architecture (FIFARC) 1987–1991 Lausanne, Festival International du Film d’Architecture et d’Urbanisme (FIFAL) 1993–1997 Graz, film+arc 1999–2005 Graz, Medien und Architektur Biennale 1997–2009 Florence, Beyond Media 1999– Rencontres Internationales Cinéma & Architecture d’Annecy 1999– Rotterdam, Architecture Film Festival (AFFR) 2007– South Africa, Architect Africa Film Festival 2008– Budapest, Architecture Film Days 2009– New York, Architecture & Design Film Festival (ADFF) 2009– Lund, International Architecture Film Festival (ArchFilmLund) 2012– Santiago, Architectural Film Festival (ARQFILMFEST) 2012– Winnipeg, Architecture + Design Film Festival (A+DFF) 2013– Santander, Festival Internacional de Cine y Arquitectura (FICARQ) 2013– Milano, Design Film Festival 2013– Lisbon, Arquiteturas Film Festival 2013– Australia, ArchiFlix Architecture & Design Film Festival 2014– Bucharest, UrbanEye 2014– Copenhagen Architecture Festival x Film (CAFxFILM) 2014– Puebla, CINETEKTON! International Film and Architecture Festival 2017– London, Architecture Film Festival (ArchFilmFest) Awards 2011– ArchFilmLund Prize 2013– Society of Architectural Historians (SAH) Award for Film and Video 2013– ArqFilmFest Prize 2014– UrbanEye Prize 2015– American Institute of Architects (AIA) Film Challenge 2017– ‘Window to Architecture’ Film Prize, International Short Film Week Regensburg Websites 2007– Architekturclips 2013– LaMIPA

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2015– The Architecture Player 2018– Cinearchi.org Exhibitions 1996 Filmarchitektur — Von Metropolis bis Blade Runner, German Architecture Museum & German Film Museum, Frankfurt am Main 2010 2 1 / 2 Dimensional: Film Featuring Architecture, De Singel, Antwerpen 2017 gta Films, Institute for the History and Theory of Architecture, Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (ETH), Zürich Conferences 1993 Screenscapes, International Film Festival Leeds 1994 Cine-City: Film and Perceptions of Urban Space, 1895–1995, Getty Center, Los Angeles 1995 Cinema and Architecture, Department of Architecture, University of Cambridge & National Film and Television School, Beaconsfields 1999 Cinema and the City, Centre for Film Studies, University College Dublin 2002 Architecturanimation, Architects’ Association of Catalonia, Barcelona 2005 Visualising the City, Centre for Screen Studies, University of Manchester 2008 Cities in Film: Architecture, Urban Space and the Moving Image, School of Architecture and School of Politics and Communication Studies, University of Liverpool 2012 Film als Medium der Architekturgeschichte, Institut für Kunstwissenschaft und Philosophie, Katholische Privatuniversität Linz 2016 Architecture | Essay | Film, Bartlett School of Architecture, University College London 2016 Space, Film and Architecture Symposium — Or Why Architects Should Watch Films, John Moores University, Liverpool 2016 New Directions in Film-Architecture, University of Newcastle, Australia 2017 Moving Spaces: A Symposium Exploring the Expanded Field of Architecture and Moving Image, Whitecliffe College of Arts & Design, Auckland 2018 Framing Space Through Architecture and Film, Courtauld Institute of Art & King’s College, London 2018 Film, Space, Architecture, Architecture Association, London

Departments and Research Groups 1998–2005 Cambridge University Moving Image Studio (CUMIS) 1999– Unit15, Bartlett School of Architecture, London 2002– Architecture Media Management (AMM), Bochum University of Applied Sciences 2005– 2012 Communication of Architecture, Brandenburg University of Technology Cottbus 2005– Digital Studio for Research in Design, Visualisation and Communication (DIGIS), Cambridge University 2009– Communication of Architecture, Technische Universiteit Karlsruhe 2014– Spatial Concepts in Film and Architecture, Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (ETH), Zürich 2014– Unit24, Bartlett School of Architecture, London Films 1987 1990 1991 1994 1995

The Black Tower (UK, John Smith) The In-Between (US, Carole Ann Klonarides & Michael Owen) Suspended Abbey (US, Nicole Tostevin) Overexposed (US, Diller+Scofidio) Il Girasole. A House Near Verona (CH, Christoph Schaub

Stone’s Throw (UK, Assembly Studios) Evolution Gateshead (UK, Squint / Opera) 2011 Lister Mills (UK, Uniform) The Story of Straw (UK, Sara Muzio) Robots of Brixton (UK, Kibwe Tavares) Favourite Housing (DK, Moa Liew, Christel Nisbeth, Annemie Sandahl & Agnes Mohlin)

2012

2013

& Marcel Meili)

1996 Blight (UK, John Smith) 1998 Vacancy (DE, Matthias Müller) 1999 Metacity / Datatown (NL, MVRDV) Alex Gopher. The Child (FR, Antoine Bardou-Jacquet) 2000 From My Window, 1978–1999 (PL, Józef Robakowski) 2001 Pig City (NL, MVRDV) Röyksopp. Remind Me (FR, Ludovic Houplan & Hervé de Crécy) 2003 Post Barnsley (UK, Squint / Opera) 2004 Fort Dunlop Green (UK, Assembly Studios) 2014 Birdhouse (UK, Squint / Opera) Picture a City (Bradford) (UK, Squint / Opera) This Is Not a Time for Dreaming (US, Pierre Huyghe) 2005 Chips 2 (UK, Squint / Opera & Smoothe) 2006 Gardens by the Bay I (UK, Squint / Opera) Driving with the Jones (UK, Squint / Opera) Fascinatio (NL, Michiel Wesselius) 2007 John Lautner, The Desert Hot Springs Motel (AT, Sasha Pirker) Place des cercles (ES, Luis Úrculo) 2008 Nido. 22 @ District (UK, Uniform) Cohabitation (US, Robert Cha, Caroline Dahl & Amir Lotfi) 2015 Saxton Leeds (UK, The Neighbourhood) Angelica Fuentes, The Schindler House (AT, Sasha Pirker) Sky Car City (NL, MVRDV) Rodakis (DE, Olaf Nicolai) Langarita-Navarro, the Movie (ES, Langarita-Navarro Arquitectos) 2009 Beyond Boundaries (UK, Uniform) 2016 Le bled (Buildings in a Field) (US, Jem Cohen & Luc Sante) Detroit (IL, Amir Yatziv) m.poli (ES, Imagen Subliminal) Castrum (IT, 2A+P / A) 2010 The Romance of Systems: An Architectural Love Story (US, MOS Architects)

AIC . Automotive Intelligence Center (ES, Luis Úrculo) Epsilon Euskadi (ES, Luis Úrculo) Piscina Vizcaya (ES, Luis Úrculo) Creeping Prow (UK, Assembly Studios) Two Kingdom Street (UK, Assembly Studios)

2017

The German Village (IL, Amir Yatziv) Corby Cube (UK, The Neighbourhood) Hello, Ms. Hock (ES, Jordi Bernadó) La Madre, il Figlio e l’Architetto (NL, Petra Noordkamp) Jonah (UK, Kibwe Tavares) Making Cities (FR, Edoardo Cecchin) Sizígia (PT, Luis Urbano) A casa do lado (PT, Luis Urbano) Peep (BR, Lea van Steen & Marcio Kogan) Cat (BR, Lea van Steen & Marcio Kogan) Jean de la lune (FR, Collectif Etc.) Normannenstraße (DE, IJ.Biermann & Fiene Scharp) HausBauMaschine (IL, Amir Yatziv) Torre David (CH, Daniel Schwartz) Hic Sunt Leones (ES, Jordi Bernadó) Architecture and Palliation (DK, Within Walls) Une vie radieuse (FR, Meryll Hardt) DLRG (DE, Antje Buchholz) La glace à la fourme (FR, Collectif Etc.) Chupan Chupai (UK, Liam Young) Modern Living (BR, Lea van Steen & Marcio Kogan) Les plumes des jours (FR, Collectif Etc.) El Espinar House (ES, Imagen Subliminal) Ayer tuve un sueño (ES, Imagen Subliminal) The Astronaut’s Ark (DE, Fiene Scharp, Kai Miedendorp & IJ.Biermann) This Was Not My Dream (BR, Gabriel Kogan & Pedro Kok) Last Dance on the Main (CA, Aristofanis Soulikias) There Are Pictures Because There Are Walls.

A Prologue (AT, Sasha Pirker) Lunar Economic Zone (UK, Zhan Wang) GHL (AT, Lotte Schreiber) The Simultaniest (IL, Amir Yatziv) Paraisos de la memoria (ES, Luis Úrculo) Fortress of Solitude (IT, Space Caviar) Halden Prison (DK, Michael Madsen) Bjarke Ingels. Worldcraft (DK, Kaspar Astrup Schröder) Screen to Screen 4.0 (FR, Vincent Broquaire) Resort (CZ, Martin Hrubý) Kammermusik (DE, Katharina Blanken) Desert Miracles (DE, Miriam Gossing & Lina Sieckmann) Modulor (FR, Freaks Architects) Rent-a-Foreigner in China (US, David Borenstein) Penúmbria (PT, Eduardo Brito) Manchmal also denkt man, weil es sich bewährt hat.

Wittgensteins Haus (AT, Lotte Schreiber) Ocean Hill Drive (DE, Miriam Gossing & Lina Sieckmann) Days of Zucco (FR, Lucas Bacle) Francis Kéré. An Architect Between (DE, Daniel Schwartz) Vorort (DE, Laura Engelhardt) Bombastic Rubbish (UK, Titas Halder & Daniel Nils Roberts) Als je terugkomt woon ik aan het water (NL, Petra Noordkamp) Construction Lines (UK, Max Colson) The Green and Pleasant Land (UK, Max Colson) DeLightFuL. Essential Spaces (IT, Matteo Garrone)

219

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ISBN 978-94-6208-456-8 8-94-6208-456-8

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