Imagery and the Crisis of Identity-creation by Suprio Bhattacharjee
In a world that is rapidly experiencing a homogenisation of cultures and a 'globalblanding' of the built environment, there persists a need to carve out a unique identity. Unfortunately, in the rush to 'create' this identity, deeper and more significant values and sources are often overlooked in favour of the easily available, reproducible and consumable. Appropriating a 'regional style' that tends towards a 'universal' image of a sense of 'regionality' undermines the specific and particular aspects of a site and program in terms of climate, culture, topography, available materials, and appropriate technology. Identity and 'regional sensitivity' cannot be removed from the larger issue of place making. Kenneth Frampton argues, ‘only rarely does (this) critical opinion extend … beyond the surface issue of style to demand that architectural practice should re-address itself to the issue of place creation, to a critical yet creative redefinition of the concrete qualities of the built domain.’ Two modest recent examples in comparable settings illustrate the importance of 'place creation' to overcome the facelessness and anonymity inherent in our built environments today Zaha Hadid's contemporary arts centre in Cincinnati, USA and Matthew Ghosh Architects' Bethel Baptist Church in Bangalore. Specifically designed as attractors for their respective settings, similar strategies are adopted blurring the distinction between Site and City, with the street on two sides (both are on corner plots) drawn into the lower public activity areas through ramped/sloping floor elements. Both are successful examples of lending an immediate and specific identity by the creation of powerful congregational ‘places’ for the community. Achieved in smaller projects of local significance through sensitive place making, identity-creation in large projects of national prestige and importance involve complex issues. The combined vision of client and architect is imperative to achieving an architecture that pushes beyond a static and sentimental representation of a perceived ‘golden’ past replete with clichéd symbolism.
The instant urge to project a 'national style' can be detrimental and too generalised - far removed from the specifics of the site.
Identity and Imagery Every prestige public building becomes a projection of identity – whether regional or national. Kenzo Tange’s designs for the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo marked the apotheosis of post-war Japanese architecture. Relying on subtle imagery, with distinct fan shapes and arching wooden roofs – the buildings nonetheless were unmistakably products of their age. The buildings successfully responded sensitively to the gently undulating site, generating important public spaces in crowded post-war Tokyo. Abstracted off traditional forms, their swooping roofs became powerful and unique symbols in their own right - instantly recognisable as collective cultural markers. These buildings ‘defined’ a renewed identity for postwar Japan and most importantly, a willingness to coalesce indigenous culture and tradition with emergent technologies. Instead of reinforcing pastiche or imagery, a technologically optimistic vision of Japan was previewed – where tradition and hyper-modernity blur into seamless singularity. Not all countries have been able to bridge across cultural divides so comfortably. In India, more than fifty years after independence, our present crisis of identity is most visibly manifested in our architecture – increasingly consumed by a globalised glass and metal placeless-ness, with regressive nostalgia and historicism offering a less than effective antidote.
The identity-creation crisis A tenable architecture needs to be evolved, that is free from stylistic quotations and empty references to a past we no longer can identify with but still have to live with. Our architecture has failed to provide people with a sense of collective identity. How can we represent the present state of the country – filled with its modern-day paradoxes and insecurities? Previous models no longer hold relevance in our indeterminate present to take us into the future – no longer can past images be ‘appropriated’. A
renewed sense of identity needs to be ‘defined’ and ‘constructed’. We need to confront the important question of whether pan-regional identities (e.g. an ‘Indian’ architecture) are possible to construct – a sort of ‘universalised’ notion of an architecture belonging to a certain political entity. This is elucidated by the fact that identity construction goes beyond the imposition of symbolism and cultural codification to include aspects of the particular and the specific. An abstract inclined disc, a crystalline outcrop, and an amputated mandala. Three significant contemporary library buildings of national status can be used as exemplars in bringing forth various positions and standpoints in the debate surrounding the question of identity and imagery. All three buildings are sited in potent locations – rife with rich histories, legacies and legends. Rising along the city’s waterfront, the new Alexandria Library’s design evolves from a rigorous pursuit of the functional programme. Designed by Gunnar Birkerts, the forthcoming National Library of Latvia in Riga instead finds clues in the country’s rich folklore and literature. The Parliamentary Library in New Delhi, built in the shadow of Howard Baker's monumental drum-like parliamentary complex and designed by Raj Rewal extends a well-entrenched stylistic and symbolic approach inherent in Indian Architecture since the 1980’s. Designed by Snøhetta, an emergent Norwegian practice, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina (completed 2001) argues strongly for the rigorous execution of program to effect an architecture that is 'specific' in its response to context and climate yet encouraging multiple readings and interpretations. Programmatically, the building is contained within a massive chamfered drum, 160 meters in diameter. The only ‘overt’ symbolic cultural references are giant alphabets from all of the world’s languages inscripted on the limestone-clad perimeter wall wrapping the drum – not misplaced in what would be one of the world’s largest libraries.
While imposed - the non-contextual nature of the circular form is negotiated by breaking it at a corner – intersected by a bridge that connects the neighbouring university across the street at one end, the other end extending above the new Plaza of World Cultures towards the beach. Fronting the boulevard along the bay, the plaza creates a significant new urban space for the people of Alexandria – the urban gesture of the connecting footbridge reinforcing the client and architect’s intention to make an open, easily accessible building. Within, a vast tiered reading hall descends over ten levels – naturally illuminated by north light from the roof that (externally) forms a giant inclined disc – conversely dipping or rising out of the ground (encouraging literal readings as a rising sun when seen from across the bay). Never intentioned by the architects themselves, the giant angled disc immediately acquired symbolic acclaim from the competition jurors who felt that it appropriately abstracted the Egyptian’s reverence for the sun god Ra (represented as a simple disc in ancient hieroglyphs). This association was reinforced by the function of the roof - an instrument angled and modulated so as to allow for the penetration of north light while taming the harsh Mediterranean sun. Slicing through the ground where the fabled Alexandria Library once stood, the angled disc has evoked deeper interpretations. Connecting the earth and the sky and drawing upon cosmic associations, to many it represents the dynamic movement across time and space through millennia. It represents a connection of the past with the future (inscribed by a grid that makes legible the underlying structural order, the roof remarkably resembles a silicon chip – a symbol of the future), with the ground acting as a datum – the present. Dictated by height restrictions, the building is submerged to accommodate the program. The disc-like roof cleverly betrays this internal spatial configuration, supported on slender concrete columns based on a functionally determined grid of 14x9 meters (based on standard book stack dimension). With papyrus-inspired capitals supporting distinct beams on the ordered forest of slender columns, the vast illuminated space provides an awe-inspiring modern-day interpretation of the trabeated hypostyle halls of the past. Appearing almost impenetrable from the outside, the vast incisioned roof along with the inscribed
stone-clad perimeter wall lends the building a solid, mysterious and enigmatic presence – qualities associated with ancient Egyptian architecture. This is reinforced by an experiential journey that progressively reveals the vast, light-filled ‘hypostyle’ hall contained and protected within the outer shell. Designed from a specifically ‘functional’ viewpoint, this building has perhaps serendipitously and successfully defined a surprising sense of renewed collective identity – never intended in the original brief that asked simply for a sophisticated library building. It manages to traverse scales, responding to the specific nature of its unique site and climate as well as alluding to and reinterpreting past models. It creates a strong sense of place – within and without. The Bibliotheca Alexandria has become a distinct image in its own right - instead of drawing upon overt imagery and symbolism. In the absence of any direct and deterministic references – the building allows for a multitude of readings and symbolic associations, despite its sole basis in rigorous programmatic articulation. Far removed from the Alexandria Library’s pure functional design objectives, the new building for the National Library of Latvia in Riga (under construction) consciously defines a rejuvenated sense of national identity. Refraining from appropriating and replicating past models – it looks beyond the regional architecture to encompass a broader sense of identity-creation that incorporates the collective conscious of the populace. Uniquely, it sources inspiration from Latvia’s folklore – songs, fables, sayings and anecdotes, described by the architect Gunnar Birkerts as the country’s DNA. Intended to project newly independent Latvia’s struggle for national freedom, it sources two stories of courageous struggle of the ‘castle of light’ and the ‘crystal mountain’. The library forms itself into a faceted metaphoric mountain clad in glass to varyingly refract and reflect light. Extending references to Latvia’s natural heritage, the vertical lines of glazing represent dense birch forests of the countryside. Drawing analogies to the castle of light that rose
from the depths of the seas in the mythical fable, the building thrusts itself skyward along the banks of the Duagava River as a symbol of rebirth, while the cascading facades rising abruptly from the ground reinforce the notion of a dramatic geological event. Internally, the building experientially manifests an imagined journey through a crystalline, lightfilled grotto, while generous plazas along the riverbank would draw in the public. In its solidity and protective character it is vaguely reminiscent of the kletis – traditional farm storage buildings, although this allusion is understated. The building succeeds in its quest for a collective sense of identity at many levels. Original in its formal expression, it manifests the impalpable nature of the sourced fables (identifiable by every Latvian) into a bold and evocative architecture. As a successful and emergent cultural symbol, it is all encompassing – drawing upon memory, imagination, inspiration, courage and heroism besides references to a rich folklore and regional building typology. It cannot be ‘copied’ or ‘replicated’ – it is specific in its responses – at a metaphorical level as well as at a more tangible level in its inclusive urban gestures. Responding confidently and emphatically to provide a foil to the imposing historic domes and spires (remnants of an era of cultural domination) along the banks of the old city across the river, it projects a fiercely independent image. It strikes an optimistic note - generating growth in the neglected part of the city – while. As a sign of its public acceptance and approval, the clamour to build generated a national fervour during the decade long period that the building had been in the docks. Here, the formation of identity is seen as emergent and dynamic - a collective sense of appreciation would result from repeated interactions. A powerful cultural symbol that it has become, the abstract, metaphorical and nondeterministic nature of the ‘sculpted’ form encourages a multitude of readings and interpretations. These two buildings exemplify a ‘loose’ and ‘abstract’ approach towards identity-creation by bringing forward essential qualities and drawing upon metaphors and reinterpretation. They ‘define’ rather than ‘impose’ a collective sense of identity that would emerge over use and time.
On the other hand, the Parliamentary Library in New Delhi (completed 2002) draws on symbolism and imagery in a very deterministic manner with an emphasis on replication and representation - thus remaining parochial in its design while failing to generate a dynamic sense of identity that would encourage newer, multiple readings. Won in competition, it incorporates a mix of local materials (local sandstone used as cladding – the same materials used in the parliamentary complex) and masonry domes supported over delicate steel tensioning systems – undoubtedly a structural tour-deforce that, as Peter Davey remarked, recalls the unbuilt visions of the 19th century French thinker Viollet-le-Duc. Despite the obvious technical achievements, the design of this building represents a lost opportunity in the history of contemporary Indian Architecture. A myopic client’s vision ensured that competitors’ designs ‘respected’ and ‘harmoniously blended’ with the colonial context – a submissive gesture on such a prominent site. The height was limited to the podium level of the parliament, presumably to maintain ‘sightlines’ – an ill-conceived adaptation of Washington DC’s height restrictions. This gesture understandably received appreciation from a (largely British based) international architectural press. Internationally though, the level of the highest cornice in neighbouring historic buildings of any stature is generally accepted as the maximum allowable height for any new development – evident in the design of the new Scottish Parliament or even in Washington, where buildings can be as high as the base of the capitol dome. The overbearing presence and monumental character of the parliament and other buildings arose from a desire to display imperial dominance and power. In a country that won its independence more than fifty years ago, a submissive stance is unwarranted – argued by Rewal’s winning design rather unconvincingly as a relationship between the ‘guru’ and the ‘king’ (the parliament building).
The guru would be enlightening, rational, and thoughtful, standing his ground and maintaining his unquestionable integrity. However, the building is rife with references and gestures that have a questionable relevance. The incongruous imposition of a ‘mandala’ plan over a triangular site resulting in a corner of the ninesquare being chopped off glaringly exposes the non-specific and forced nature of the plan. It reinforces a cliché seen in Indian Architecture since the 1980's - where the mandala has been mindlessly used in significant buildings ranging from art centres to legislative assemblies and universities. The relevance of a two-dimensional representation of a cosmic diagram to generate an imposed plan form regardless of program or site conditions remains unquestioned. So is its inability to outwardly project its internal spatiality. Even when seen from a purely symbolic viewpoint, the ‘amputated’ mandala is a gross disrespect to the original image itself, which has been reduced to a caricature. The planning strategy belies the fact that the building has been designed as a four storey freestanding object which is then simply 'pushed' underground by half – so as not to rise above the podium level of the parliament building. The decision to go underground can also be weighed against the fact that a large portion of the site remains open and residual - a side effect of imposing a non-specific plan form. Extending Rewal’s rather formulaic working methodology, this building, like many others, borrows its spatial configuration from a ‘universalised’ model - the Ranakpur temple in Rajasthan. The repeated ‘appropriation’ of this temple model regardless of program or purpose has reduced it to another clichéd image devoid of meaning. The overt iconography and symbolism in its plan form (irrelevant to the user who can never perceive it spatially unless shown a plan) is reinforced by the use of a massive central glass dome – a complete disregard of the scorching Delhi climate – ostensibly to replicate the central courtyard of the Ranakpur temple. The building continues its pastiche by reproducing Islamic patterns and motifs in jallis and on floors. Even the clustered domes are described in a previous project by Raj Rewal (the Ismaili Centre in Lisbon, Portugal which uses a similar hybrid dome construction) as ‘Islamic’.
In a secular and democratic institution such as a library, such overt symbolism was perhaps uncalled for. By surrounding the building with a high wall (for reasons of security) – the city is kept at bay – and so are its citizens. This reinforces the exclusive nature of the design – and in a city with walls and security guards – it yet again fails to create significant open public architecture. The closed and hermetic nature of the design also reinforces an image of opaque and closed government machinery – of the lack of transparency in a system that is struggling to rid itself of its past baggage. The design of new government buildings in the US should offer us clues as to how one can achieve security without sacrificing on porosity. Context here is unfortunately read in a limited manner as a veneer of stone cladding and a representation of Islamic elements to ‘appropriate’ to the 'historical context' – but not as a dynamic response to the site, the urban setting or the adjoining built forms which unfortunately denies any possibility of bringing a fresh perspective on the debate for a 'specific' and place-creating 'Indian' architecture. Rather, it takes generic prototypes and imposes them in a 'generalised' manner. Ultimately, the completed building lacks the self-assurance and confident poise that it could have possessed. The building fails to sketch a bold and inspiring pose in the monumental backdrop of its colonial surroundings. In addition, the building seems afraid of expressing its own self striking a very defensive and retreating posture. Globally, architecture has become a medium of defining and representing a dynamic sense of regional identity and belonging. Instead this building clutters itself with imagery and direct symbolism. It seems overburdened by the past, with an uncomfortable acceptance of modernity, surrendering to the belief that the past is ill fitting, yet projecting a hesitance (or resistance) to shake it off. It refuses to ‘define’ a renewed sense of who we are – the complexity and realities of our pluralistic society and cultural inclusive-ness and diversity. Neither does it source a broader base upon which to build collective identity – such as our wealth of literature, arts, music,
etc. It rather settles prescriptive formulae.
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Even the design of the new Indian Embassy in Berlin settles for a clichéd view of Indian-ness – a ‘north-centric’ image of the country’s identity – despite being designed by the Berlin-based practice of Leon Wolhage Wernig. Clad customarily in pink Jaisalmer sandstone, its formalisation is disturbingly reminiscent of Charles Correa’s work, and makes obvious references to the Jantar Mantar in Delhi, while having the predictable Islamic jalli. It reinforces a sort of ‘cultural commodification’ of ‘panIndianness’ The debate regarding architecture with a distinct ‘Indian’ identity needs to move beyond imagery and mere symbolism in the quest for an 'appropriate' architecture. This assumes importance when one is confronted by the search today for an 'Indian-ness' in our architecture. While well intended, there is an irony in our quest to create this: our buildings tend to be far removed from the specifics of the place they are built in. Thus establishing a truly 'pan-Indian' identity may be over ambitious and inappropriate. Indian Architecture today is in the midst of a deep crisis. After a wake of architects who adapted and integrated a modernist vocabulary into a symbolic (if sometimes too representational) expression of regional identity – Raj Rewal belongs to this group - the architecture of the sub-continent today (by and large – barring a scattering of emerging practitioners) lacks a fresh, appropriate and widespread initiative to evolve a unique and distinct architectural culture. Without sidestepping the pressing realities of the present, a unique architecture needs to evolve that reinterprets program, specificity and cultural complexity into a tenable and progressive vision for the future.