Jättömaat
реинкарнација, а таа бавна и неизвесна. Таму ништо не постои, Alueita, jotka ovat jääneet pois но затоа пак се е возможно, секоја käytöstä, hylätty: rakennuksia, форма, боја и функција. Да се tehtaita, autiotaloja, rautatieasemia, интерпретира во сечиј карактер, lentokenttiä, kouluja. да се адаптира на секаква идеја. Alueita, jotka ovat saastuneet, Пуста земја. Можеби pilaantuneet: kaatopaikat, öljyynнеблагородно минато, можеби tyneet maat, Tshernobyl, Hiroshima, возбудлива иднина. Во најспората Nagasaki. од сите уметности, потребно Alueita, jotka ovat unohtuneet, е време да се почуствуваат jääneet huomiotta: tienristeykset, alle промените, но штом еднаш ќе 10m² nurmikot, siltojen alapuolet, почнат, ништо повеќе нема да е kulmat, päätepisteet. исто. Alueita, jotka ovat jääneet Пуста е, но не е празна. poiskäytöstä, tulleet tarpeettomiksi: Има бескрајно многу можности... moottoritiet, rautatiet, kadut sillat. Muut alueet: meret, järvet, joet, Céard í an Gaeilge ar “Wastelands”? aavikot, arot. Ina thír gan teanga riamh aon tuairisc caitear an talamh a casadh gan Med forskellige grunde, forestillinger amhras. Ní féidir fóirgneamh a chuir og forhaabninger har vi hver isär síos mura bhfuil aon leathanach pakket en taske, smidt den over skulos comhair an cuma. deren og rejst til finland. Om det saa var en lang tur i bilen, en nat i toget, Da geht man nicht einfach so hin. en kort rejse med bussen (eller en Das muss man wollen, obwohl es lang og ubehagelig tur med bussen mit Müll nichts zu tun hat. Die som i denne forfatters tilfälde, hvor Karten und Straßen sind schlecht aftagende fuldskab en tidlig morgen und die U-Bahn muss erst gebaut kolliderede med hvad der föltes werden. Es gibt keine Kirchen oder som granitsäder samt gyngende og Kreisverkehre. opkastväkkende turbulens), fandt vi Das ist schon alles, was alle vej. Vi har brugt flyvemaskiner, man mit Gewissheit darüber sagen toge, fodtöj, cykler, skateboards, kann. trammen, svävebaner, rulletrapper, Der Rest ist dem Zufall überlassen. for til sidst at ankomme til WasteEs ist eine seltsam dünne lands. Omraadet er enormt og her Linie, die da eine Grenze zieht er höjt til loftet. Det er overskudsazwischen nichts und etwas. Die realer som navnet indikerer. Her er aufgegebene Nutzung ist ebenso plads. Jeg maa tage 700 skridt over betonen for at blive serveret mad, og eingeschrieben, wie das unangezapherfra 500 skridt for at indfinde mig fte Potential angelegt ist. Oft ist es Post-Industriell, i baren. Med endnu 700 skridt kann jeg naa min sovepose. Her pakker vi Zeuge wirtschaftlichen und gesellschaftlichen Wandels, Brutstätte urbavores tasker ud. ner Transformation gleichermaßen wie Motor der Gentrifizierung. Постоеше таа некогаш, таму Vielleicht war das, was da некаде. Тлее во сеќавањето, денес war, bevor es zu dem wurde, was es не постои, но не е заборавена, jetzt ist auch einfach langweilig und или можеби обратно. Смешна е, скршена и сеуште убава, заробена ist erst im Lauf des Verfalls interessant geworden. во сопствената неподнослива Der Verfall ist ja etwas егзистенција, толку тивка и reizvolles, solange er einen nicht сурова, но непобитна. Во потрага selbst betrifft. е по својот изгубен идентитет, Und auch wir bauen nicht безлична, необоена, без име и без für die Ewigkeit.Chair umbra mea глас. Меланхолична. Скромно pasind mai departe, lasa in urma го проектира своето минато locul unde se intampla nimicul. и нестрпливо чека на својата
A calatori in acel loc inseamna cu siguranta sa-l parasesti. Inseamna sa nu-l privesti cu ochii deschisi, caci te vei trezi uitandu-te mirat la nimic. Marea te duce serpuind acolo si gandul la ea te poarta mai departe prin desertul de asfalt, te poarta printre copacii ce ascund desertul si prin desertul ce nu ascunde copaci. Si atunci, cu pasi grabiti, te lovesti strain de alti straini, straini in gandul lor catre mare. Desertul se intinde in pavaj si cuprinde umbrele calatorilor mergand alene in urma lor, tinjand sa mai ramana, o secunda poate. Cai nescrise se intersecteaza in viitor sau in trecut - prezentul este trecator. Chair umbra mea pasind mai departe, lasa in urma locul unde se intampla nimicul. Take the number 6 tram. It stops right outside the central train station. Try not to stare at the resident alcoholics. Find a seat, or stand if you prefer. But watch for the corners. It’s not a long ride so keep an eye. The name of the stop is something Finnish. Don’t worry about it, just wait for the Lidl to sail into view. Now head in that direction. If you find yourself at the bridge, you’ve gone the wrong way. Turn around and this time go left down the hill. There’s a pizza place on the way. Take note. Stop at the dangerous road. Wait for the green man. Mind the cyclists here; roadworks have cordoned their lane and they’re in no mood to share. Have a look up and then across. It’s fairly vast. Start walking. Get used to it. Wander (or should that be wonder?) A city in miniature, it feels a lot bigger than it is. Visit a block. Ignore the function. Make it to the back until you forget about the others. Then leave. Repeat. Swim around a bit. Find the middle. Find the edge and then turn back again. But bring a brolly. Portable shelter is a great comfort. Enjoy. Saunter, but don’t get too cocky. This end of town will look completely different next week. This is only here as long as you are. This is the best place to be right now. This is Wastelands.
The following pages are a presentation of the work completed by students of the Writing is Building workshop during EASA 2012. This workshop aimed to give participants the opportunity to explore their own architectural concerns through the medium of language. In his essay the Account of Architects and Architecture, the English writer John Evelyn asserts that the process of creating architecture is embodied in four kinds of person. First was architectus ingenio – the man of ideas and drawing. Second was the architectus sumptuarius – the man of money, the patron. Third was architectus manuarius – the man of building, the contractor. And fourthly, was architectus verborum – the man of words, the journalist. Evelyn’s personification of the parts of architecture expressed an important idea: that architecture consisted not just one or two of these activities, but of all four of them in concert. Under these terms, the language through which a work of architecture is explored is no less important than the architectural idea itself. 1 However, for most students during their education as architects the importance of language is ignored in favour of drawings and photography. Yet there are fundamental differences between the nature of language and image. Each have their own set of rules. Each limit what can be communicated. Each construct their own reality. The workshop was organised as part of the European Architecture Students Assembly. EASA is a network of up to 500 young, emerging architects and students from over 50 countries around Europe. In 2012 the EASA summer school was held in Helsinki, Finland. More info on EASA is available on their website: http://www.wastelands.fi/ Students began with a series of readings on a range of approaches relating to language and architecture, and were asked to experience these within the city of Helsinki itself. Following a discussion of this exercise a written project was be set in order to allow participants give form to their ideas. This involved returning to their chosen space in the city suitable for reading and writing. The final projects were decided by students themselves. These projects vary from purely literary texts, to cinematic essays, to typographic installations based in the city streetscape. This book has been produced with the intention of documenting and collating the students work. It has been designed, printed and bound by the participants and is the final undertaking in the exploration of the potential for language and architecture.
The contents of this publication, the films mentioned and further information concerning writing and architecture may be found at writingisbuilding.wordpress.com. 1 Forty, A, Words and Building. A Vocabulary of Modern Architecture. Thames & Hudson, London, 2000.
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easa helpers’ dorms, suvilahti pauli rikaniemi
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There is a pink rubber glove, bent over an edge. The glove is clean; there is no dust on it. The edge is grey and hard. It is an edge of a radiator – not hot enough to melt the glove. There are two pipes leaving the radiator. Between the pipes and the radiator there is a connector piece, unpainted metal. The pipes are painted white. One starts from the top and the other from the bottom of the radiator. “Hey.” The pipe connected to the connector piece connected to the radiator on top of which lies the glove connected at the bottom of the radiator is horizontal before turning vertical. The other pipe turns vertical almost immediately. “You wanna see my wristband?” The bottom pipe takes six turns and the pipe on top takes five turns before ending in to the wall (white). “What time does your duty end?” Seven doors lead out of the room. Three of them are closed. The open doors are all the same: grey, medium width, brass handles. The closed doors are all different from each other and from the three open doors. “Do you think it’s okay if we have the sauna now?” The door leading outside is slightly ajar. Air inside is replaced with colder air from outside. The radiator on top of which there is the pink rubber glove is not on. “Don’t let the thieves in…!”
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bus 88x, hakaniemi - kaitalahti rafael kopper
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Since High-School is far behind me by now I don’t know how much space is required for 500 words anymore. We used to know this kind of stuff: the approximate space needed for a specific amount of words and the time it would take to complete the task. We measured in words and pages, square-meters didn’t mean any thing back then. But in my endeavour to master space on a rather different scale, this knowledge got lost. I’m in a bus in Helsinki. Again. But reading and writing in a moving vehicle are two very different things. While i find the monotonous sounds of a train relaxing and its steadiness equally suited for reading and writing, my latent fear of airplanes makes reading inside them hard and being creative onboard impossible. Creativity can’t exist above three maybe four kilometres of height, especially when your not on a mountain but inside a claustrophobic metal cage, constructed maybe decades ago, flying over a vast ocean, in which, should you survive the always imminent crash, chances of being rescued are slim at best. Cars aren’t suited for obvious reasons, unless you’re merely a passenger. Back to the buses, my bus, driving through an unfamiliar city. I never wrote anything other than calendar notes while on a tram, metro or bus before and the notion of people being able to get a glimpse inside my mind discomforts me. On the other hand I’m actively observing these people, able to capture them in my notebook, whether they like it or not. I guess that levels the playing field. Though it’s not hot outside the air-conditioning is running, cooling the bus to an uncomfortable 18, 19 degrees. I asked the female bus-driver for directions to Suvilahti, since I don’t know the way back after randomly hopping on and off before without any sense of orientation. Except for an asian couple who don’t look like tourists and a young mother with a child toying with a pink flower the bus is empty. A lot of stops are passed without people entering or exiting. A blonde girl around my age just got on, texting. She’s smiling at her cellphone each time a short vibration indicates a new message. The asian couple fell asleep, resting their heads against each other. As I get off the bus, the driver apologises for not being able to help me.
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nihtilaituri, sompasaari viviane ehrensberger
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Where we lay at the pier Where we had ice cream
Where we climbed on the old ship Where he ripped his jacket Where I balanced on the ledge
Where I wished that moment would last forever Where we listened to an awful punk-rock band
Where he asked me to go with him Where we parted 9
paasivuorenkatu, helsinki adina anghel
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As you would walk along the corridors, the long, clearly defined corridors, a small crack in the wall would hardly draw your attention. It is just in front of a large room with other corridors intersecting, but with no chairs at all to gaze through the windows that overlook the sea, an empty room you’d say. The small opening on the opposite side, the one you could barely notice, reveals itself by two sculptures : 1.the sculpture of two men fighting, ironically vivid, projected on the dull scene and 2. an escalator rising to the ground, motionless as it could be. Pass the opening and you’ll find to your surprise, an enclosure : a room with high walls, in perfect symmetry, composed of two squares of calculated proportions and lit by the lively colours of flowers, the sweet scent of linden trees, and the sound of seagulls. There are also people in the room, chatting, drinking, people that have stopped by, strangers talking to strangers. I even noticed a tramp looking in the garbage bin. An abnormality, it seems. The floor is covered with a beautiful carpet in pastel colours and describes in strict geometry, flowers and trees, and among them an ax leading from the opening and towards the back, to four white, metal posts of contemporary ambiguity. Intriguingly, it depicts a broken line trying to break the symmetry. I look up to find equally high walls, 6-storey high, painted in the same autumn shades. They take the shape of buildings. The windows are unfortunately, painted too, as there is no one behind them but the light, a manmade light pretending to be the darkness in the room. To add up to the unrealistic side of the scene, all windows are organized in grids of rational and rigorous thinking. There are even shops drawn at the bottom of the walls and maybe one or two people made with uncertain strokes of a brush. Still, the commercial signs do not hide the verve of modern cities, as you would expect.  The calm in the atmosphere is enhanced by the lack of ceiling and the presence of a blue sky with white snow clouds further from the floor. Such is the enclosure of the room, its high boarders and symmetry, that you could not expect to find two doors at the back of it (symmetrically disposed, of course),that lead to the open bays. The same sea you could turn to through the opening, the one depicted in metal plates hanging on the walls. As I walk through one of the doors, leaving behind the strange, enclosed peninsula, the quiet voices would keep on chatting in that moderate way that seems so specific to them.
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cafĂŠ made in kallio, vaasenkatu 14 maja nyberg
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Yesterday I burnt my tongue here. Eager to taste the cafe latte, longing for the heat it would give me, cold and covered in rain soaked clothes. I kind of ended up here by accident. Or, well, I didn’t feel like dropping in to one of the several thai massage places I passed along the road. Today I had an ice tea, it’s that kind of weather outside. Plus, I didn’t want to cause my mouth more heat damage. I’m satisfied with being here. This place offers me a suitable atmosphere. Cars and people pass by but I’m not a part of it. The sounds from the street and the other guests together with the music streaming out of a speaker on the other side of the room, are offering me just the right amount of distraction and stimulation for concentration. An equation not always easy to solve. A baby just arrived. Well, a baby with it’s parents. A couple with a baby, I mean. I swallow because I know my concentration might be threatened. The room I’m sitting in does not contain fabric enough to absorb the cry of a baby. Here’s a calculation: thirteen pillows, six mattresses (approximately 50x120 cm), five dresses, seven skirts, fifteen hats, all probably made out of recycled fabric, two modern arm chairs, one worn Emma chair But the baby is nice and quiet so I neither lose my calm nor my concentration. Instead a man asks me if I’m Sari. I tell him I’m not and than he takes one of the shoes you can buy here from the table and tells me it reminds him of war. The sole is made of wood. He says that’s how you make shoes when you are out of leather. Obviously he’s not too fond of that idea and shakes his head as he walks out again through one of the many doors. The doors are open so they provide me with fresh air and a sense of involvement with the street. People are talking and the acoustics allows me to hear their conversation. I ask myself if that’s just temporarily. Would you be able to tell a secret in this room? Maybe after a while, when the room is more filled up and things have fallen into place. When the bookshelf -which arrived yesterday- contains more than a thin stack of t-shirts. When the surprised expression on the neighbors faces is washed off, because they will recognize this place.
Should I have been sitting on the other side of the window today?
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tram 8, j채tk채saari-arabia nielsine otto
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I don’t know where it is taking me. This line. I know only that at one point it will begin, at another it will end. It has already begun. I’m not moving. Definitely not running. In fact I’m sitting very still. Sinking into the bench (perhaps they won’t even notice me?) Despite this, everything is passing me by really fast and only for brief moments am I able to stay in one place. Sometimes I might want to stay longer, but no matter if I try to hold on, it will inevitably slip away in the same direction as everything else went. At times it seems the world is moving so fast that I perceive it only as a blur of colours. Grey mixing with blues and reds and yellow. Green and green and green. I know this must be trees, but I don’t know how many people are walking their dogs here. If I concentrate and keep my eyes focused on one spot at a time I can follow it from the beginning to the end and in this way have the longest possible time with it. Now it is no longer greys and reds. Now it is bricks stacked in patterns and forms and it is doors and frames, and it is people having a cigarette in the window of the first floor and shops with large signs in the bottom. But even if I am able to get eye contact, the moment is brief. Around me are stable elements. Constants. A little blue table is coming out of the wall in front of me and from it metal is emerging heading for the roof. And I know where the button is. But I won’t use it. I am going to the end of the line.
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siltanen, h채meentie sean mayl
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Blurred vision. I embrace it. I secretly, but not so secretly, love it. There’s a certain appeal to impaired sight. It holds more value when you can’t see it all. Should every architectural element be so discernible? Should architecture be so raw? What am I doing? Regurgitating my thoughts. Spaces should evoke emotions. Emotion; what a word. Many struggle to conceal it. I strive to reap each ounce of it and make it available. The appeal of a foreign land is sometimes diminished once reached. My thoughts pause for I struggle physically to compose myself in this state. I am surrounded by beings of the like. I feel accepted. Each person that occupies this space is merely a vessel of isolated emotions. It’s a collective mode of isolation. Amidst the blurred lighting and halfhearted, senseless conversations, I am adrift. I feel awkward. I do not know where to look in order to avoid confrontation. My feelings are palpable and overly exposed, like the flaws in the façade before me. The word “perfection”, written in the most imperfect manner on a nearby wall strikes me. I am guilt ridden, for I am not conforming to the preconceived functions of the space. My thoughts have no meaning here. It’s all in vain. I am a foreign object in a distant land. Clearly I am protruding in this cluster of inhabitants. This place has treated me well so far, safe for its ability to ignite previously dormant emotions. I’m not terribly inspired by my surroundings but their nurturing will have to suffice, if only for a while. People are gliding amidst one another, in an almost sporadic manner. I feel heavily loaded with thought, and yet I do not know what these thoughts are about. Or maybe I do. I just do not wish to delve into them. I fear the loss of the so-called structured self, if I were to relieve myself of inhibition. How am I to describe the space around me, when I cannot describe the space within? Maybe my body, just like this space, beholds a foreign accretion. I am in denial of my emotions, just as the space is accepting of a being of my nature. I’m uncertain as to whether I am fulfilling the task at hand. The inked horizon is not so. The light does not escape ones vision in this space, yet fails to suffice during the day. I’m uneasy with the questionable rigidity beneath my feet. I’m nauseous by the height, and lack of, peripheral railings. I con myself into believing I am a momentary writer. I cannot write and yet I’m doing so. My thoughts are wrought with denial. The emotion another being can provoke within is flabbergasting. If only I could find a space that serves as such inspiration. A face triggers my every sensory function. This space does nothing of the sort. I crave some form of satisfactory encounter. This space cannot meet such needs, but it’s the only thing presented to me. It is the only thing I can be intimate with. This space is not familiar with me and yet houses this stranger without thought. 17
h채meentie, arabia laura linsi
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The place where I am is Arabia and I am obviously testing the theory of an uncomfortable place for writing offering more inspiration. There is a metal wire surrounded with plastic hanging in front of my face, indicating a place that is actually not meant for sitting. It’s hot, maybe because it’s Arabia, maybe because I discovered the only outdoor venue in Helsinki that’s not windy or maybe just because I’m Estonian. It’s loud, because they’re building but also because the trams are driving by and going in circles in front of me before they turn back to do another round in the city. Sometimes it’s itchy, because there are ants. It’s confusing, because people with backpacks and a clearly non-finnish heritage are climbing the stairs next to me, disappearing for some good minutes, then reappearing and leaving while being clearly confused where the something is they came looking for. I think it’s closed. The story of me in Arabia is taking some obvious turns. I’m impatient, because I would like to look around. I’m worried, because the sky is turning dark grey and the wind starts to blow from different directions. The clear signs of rain. Or maybe even thunder. I’m cold, because I just removed my sweater, because a moment ago I was hot. I’m disturbed because the voices of the construction site rather offer every kind of disturbance than any kind of inspiration. I think I’m changing the place. So I guess what shopping does to me is that it really softens my brain. Walking around among millions of nice dishes, mugs, pans, I can’t really get them out of my head anymore. It’s disturbing to be fascinated by things. Had I known they were waiting for me there, I wouldn’t have gone. It wasn’t closed. It’s strange how the people passing me have changed. Suddenly they’re not looking, they’re not searching, nor are they confused. They are the shoppers, they have their brown paper bags with some nice gear in them and they seem to have a direction. They have changed completely. And to be clear, I didn’t change the place. There’s a girl, a third year architecture student, from Estonia, just finished her final project for the year – a collage-like building, a modern factory, facilitating a contemporary town hall. What she did, was that she was obsessed with the idea of creating a canyon-like service hall which would consist of some glazed office boxes and some info-desks, both to help the citizen; there’s a 6-storey building that opens to the service street, that consists of offices for the city administration. All of the floors consist of open offices, they are opened and looking down to the ground floor with the service street. Sometimes there are bridges that act as meeting rooms crossing the canyon and there is a glass roof topping it all. The glazed boxes on the ground floor step back from the office-block facade that opens to the canyon. She likes the outcome, it looks like a decent solution. So at one point she travels to Finland and finds her house there. Must be a strange feeling. Probably an architecture classic but entirely new for her. There is no reason really why the people couldn’t have changed. They continue their curious alteration even now. They turned into barefoot children with plastic guns going up and down the stairs, also into people in their cosy home-clothes walking their dogs. I’m amazed because it’s loud and silent at the same time as the sounds of the construction work are penetrating the unfinished living district. I’m hot again, because I just put my sweater on , because I was cold before. I’m calm, because I saw a weather forecast with only positive news and I’m willing to believe it. I’m anxious, because I somehow remembered that the final model of my last project is at school which is being renovated at the moment so it is possible that they threw it away. I am losing my attention. 19
aleksanterinkatu, helsinki maya dimishkova
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So I see him walking towards me and he may have just looked at me but I am sure he did not see me. He is probably late. The fastest walk wouldn’t get him there on time, and he knows it but keeps on moving through the dense crowd of people going in the opposite direction. He knows his way as it is the same every day. He’s already planned where to stop to buy coffee and then light a cigarette. But no time for anything else. He keeps on checking his suit in the shops windows. Everything seems in the right place. And hundreds of others. Then her. Tall and lightly-tanned, young and obviously a student, pushing her dark beige bicycle, thick books in the basket. “If only the bicycle path was going on this street as well.” Takes a glimpse at the construction site on her left. Maybe there used to be a park and maybe she used to hang out there with her friends and maybe she’s really missing it. There is an info board for the ongoing project. It will be new and possibly good in a way. Maybe. So her habits are being compromised. She continues pushing her bike. The non-coherent noise becomes interrupted, as I hear a music that I do not recognise. It becomes louder and clearer by each step of mine. A flute player. They’ve put a new commercial stand near his location. It seems to attract the people. More people means more ears to be satisfied, more coins to be left in the small box in front of him. Hundreds of people, thousands of images, daily experiences, walks and aims. All part of the very same city, I wonder if they see this space the way I do. One sometimes needs other eyes to see. But how much can one know, as the city shape changes faster than the human heart. One can choose to realise it, embrace it or confront it, or leave it pass him by. People may be living in the same city, but the city lives in them in so many different ways. How one feels about a city depends on thousands of reasons. Choices are important. And so I choose to get off the street, because it just started to rain.
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railway bridge pauli rikaniemi
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I am standing on wooden planks. The planks are a part of a bridge, the part one walks on. It is held up by steel support beams which form triangles. One train arriving in to the city. There are 98 support beams. No, there are 104. I am seeing things doubled. One train leaving, one arriving in to the city. The bridge is part of the city. Other parts of the city: roads, buildings, trees, people, me. I am part of the bridge as well, I use it. Other parts of the bridge: screws, bolts, concrete slabs, spiders. There is also a key. Two trains leaving the city. The key has a black stem and five peaks to make it harder to copy. It is on a steel beam - no a wooden beam. I am mixing things up. The horizontal wooden beam is held up by two vertical steel beams, connected by four bolts. The wooden beam where the key with a black stem is laying has no other function then to hold the key. It is not a support beam. Trains. There is a person standing behind me. Black coat, black boots. No it is just an idea, I wrote it. There is no one behind me. I am alone on the bridge. Noise. There are shapes: triangles squares, circles. There are colours: blue, red, yellow, black all muted. There is a person on the bridge which is part of the city. The bridge has 52 support beams, its walking surface is wood. There is a person on the bridge standing on wooden planks. Alone. A train leaving the city.
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going back viviane ehrensberger
July 19th, 7 p.m., wind blowing but sunny. My feet are dangling over the water as I struggle to write these words on pages fluttering in the wind. Behind me lay the wastelands. Yards and yards of dirt and heaps of pebbles fuelling my imagination with all the potential of this place. The water, a muddy brown, nevertheless reflects the sky, swaying and moving with the waves. The breeze is just on the verge of being unbearably cold. I hear seagulls, waves crashing against concrete, the rustling of bushes, and otherwise, nothing. It’s hard to focus. My words will never accurately describe what my eyes are taking in. Distracted by the scenery, it’s impossible to focus on the images inside me. Everything I write is somehow the space I’m in. A sudden melancholia, maybe caused by the awareness that this is just one moment, that it will pass like all the others. And as if to prove me wrong, this minute the sun comes out and warms my clammy hands, melts the cold inside and fills me with an irrational happiness.
July 24th, 10 a.m., grey and rainy. Nothing’s changed but it seems completely different. Even the walk there seemed longer. More tedious. It’s loud. I can’t take my usual shortcut because it’s locked off. I’m being stared at, a trespasser instead of an insider. I liked the idea of this place being a graveyard. A useless leftover space forgotten by society and taken over by creatives, photographers and musicians and people fleeing the city but not interested in the countryside. But it isn’t now. It’s roaring with productivity and heavy machinery. That shipwreck isn’t a wreck at all. It hasn’t been lying here for the last hundred years. There’s actually work being done on it, too. It will take time to readjust to this new side of my space. 26
July 25th, 1 a.m., dark but clear. It’s easier to forget in the dark. The party is at its peak, people laughing and shouting and dancing at the bonfire, yet I sit here, staring into space. Into my space. If I hold on to my legs tightly, I can resist the wind. The water seems more like a living organism than ever, rippling in one direction and then the other. I watch the moving lights passing the fixed lights. There are yellow lights, some red lights, some white and a couple of blue lights. I start counting but keep losing track. The fifty meters separating us help. They have not intruded on my space. I feel relief. Over the days, I have become attached to this space, protective even, although I don’t own it and can’t keep anyone from wandering in. I always sit down at the same place. Half way between the two yellow pillars. I don’t do it on purpose, it’s intuition. It’s the time murders are committed and love is made.
July 25th, 2 p.m., sunny and misty. It’s not all been said, it will never be. But today, I don’t need to write. I’ve run out of words. I guess that’s the beauty of this space. It gives you what you need. Distraction. An outlet. A projection screen. You can lose or find yourself in it. And sometimes, like today, it just lies there.
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the kingdom & wastelands adina anghel
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The Cast * the the the the the the the the the the
King Queen Princess Servants Army People Court Buffoon Peacemaker Messenger Battlefield
and the The Outsiders
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Crown of The Kingdom
He has a
ag to
call for peace in desperate times. How long shall Wasteland wait at the gates of The Kingdom?
f
live by no Rule 30
o
ate
f rom tIme to tIme
o Rule !
in the wilderness of 31
The Outsiders
. Wasteland...
[
]
sean mayl
A vacant building is not so, as different faces inhabit it. This “wasted” space; our temporary refuge. How does one deem a space to be so? What preconceived requirements need to be met? This place is a space, of that I’m certain; why this is, I am not. Perhaps then I could list all the ingredients that make this place a space. This [ ] casts a shadow on me. Space must be a sundial. This [ ] shelters me from the ever present pathetic fallacy of a climate. It isolates me from the reflection of my own emotions in the sky. Space must be a drug. This [ ] holds more space above. Above is concealed however. So a space must not show all. A space must dissipate into its’ surroundings. Space must be a horizon. This [ ] is dominated by vertical structures. The space almost seems to result as A collection of voids held together by columns Space must be a forest. This [ ] reeks of human odour. An additional challenge to our already Afflicted olfactory sense. Space must be over-used garments. This [ ] is pierced with portals of light. This Space allows for only a fraction of the external to become internal Space must be a cluster of cracks. This [ ] almost parallels its inhabitants, As we clutter it with excessive belongings from a past once lived and a future yet to be discovered. Our faces show signs of previous tribulations, just as the space is scarred with our occupancy. Space must be a mirror. 32
This [ ] defines an area. The perimeter is arrogant to withhold information from us It is provocative to instil an interest in the unnecessary. The space stimulates the imagination on what the external entails. The definition of a perimeter further dilutes itself, Though physically defined, mentally it is blurred Space must be fog. This [ ] is noisy. The collection of tongues becomes melancholic. Music, prose, mannerisms, dialects and preferences come together from all corners of the globe. This space echoes a multitude of cultures, resonating each language to the letter. Space must be a library. This [ ] is overpopulated, yet it is easy to be lonely. This space takes on the oxymoronic role of crowded isolation. The space is where two extremes coexist. Space must be a boundary.
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waste time rafael kopper
Things aren’t fun all the time. Boat-rides can be. Or reading a book in the sunshine. Sometimes nothing’s happening. And all you can do is have drink. Or smoke a cigarette. Waiting in dignity isn’t easy. Most of the time, people look displaced while doing nothing. Waiting together might split the time. And it might as well not. One might find true love at a traffic light. Or get hit by a car. In the end, we hope for the best.
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spaces between gordan vitevski
‘One can be lonely in a big city’ between capturing and time space and light object and a story Belonging while being nowhere. Belonging to the city. between objects, spaces, people, actions, interactions, patterns Can we capture (?) the visual expression of our basic space in the permanent shift of states in the city?
1. on the move bus, tram, train, bicycle, car, walk, foot, bare foot, wheelchair, skateboard move on! Stories. While running from, being in between...stations, no stops, sitting or standing. While being not on our own. While being on the move. Shaking, sweating, breathing another’s breath, trying to breath! We are. expressing architecture enclosing space (45 sec) 2. in the lights (outside door, 20 sec) It is an illusion. While being in a city. Downtown. In the lights. Yes, shopping (inside, 75 sec) tourists, natives, money, clothes, rush, sale, ale, people, beautiful people, not that beautiful people, me, well dressed people, bags, plastic bags, paper bags, full bags, empty bags, shop window, windowshopping...
38
What one wants What one can afford Should I Should I not credit card happy hungry stuck Stuck between lights and signs. In a Las Vegas wonderland. between what, where, why you are. There, here and where your thoughts might go. (95 sec) 3. through the time It is real. It merely exists. It fades in its attempt to retell the story while being present in it’s massive emptiness. between what is (not) and what it would have been between time and form there is a story. (45 sec)
39
tram 8, jätkäsaari-arabia laura linsi Aino, Aino, another Aino Everyone gets out, it’s Arabia the horrible postmodernist supermarket that consists of two supermarkets. No typo here. ttsh cling and we’re moving. Arabianranta. No one gets out, everyone is still at work, not coming home yet. Even the regular client won’t get out. That’s me. ttsh cling, clin-clin-cling! Speeding, passing cars and stop! Two Ainos get in, their shopping is over. The sign says TÖÖLÖ, TÖLÖ, another one offers vitamin water. I saw you drinking that before. And a Matti in red T-shirt gets out. Kustaankatu, Gustavsgatan, passed the next one, Urheilutalo, with an uimahalli. And cling! The only melodic sound here. Next to me young finnish girls are talking. Rollercoasters. Doing rounds, very much like me. A few days ago I was here during a night. And stannar! It’s Operan. And cling! Kebabs, kebab&pizza, Chinese cuisine, eat-here, take-away, hieronta, Thai. Disappearing all along. Nordea, pharmacies, optics, design replace them along the way. And passed a falafel sign now. Speeding, speeding and more. It’s Perhonkatu. No, not interested in that. slower and slower, it’s red, it’s a cemetry, on the right. But everything is.
40
Cling! And tzz shhup. Another regular client with a regular can. Not me, I’m here with a bottle. The prototype houses, They’re crazy. But they’re ready. Unlike everything else. In Jätkäsaari. Standing for six minutes, I don’t check the time, but the driver told me. ttsh cling! I’m sure it was less. Vulvulpes liked my photo, eikokink wants to be my friend, k6iva as well, there’s a new message, there’s a new follower and kiitos! A new Aino is in. Laughing that sounds like crying. Laughing that sounds like coughing. cling cling and the laughing is out. Joo, jo-jo. Then it’s niin, niin-niin. And then joo, jo-jo again. After that it’s a strange African language with occasional üksi, kaksi, kolme, neljä. ktssh and the sweet smell of chemistry comes out of a small novelle bottle. Cling! A new passenger goes Ä-HÄ-HÄ-HÄ With the strong Dutch H all the time. He’s white and fluffy and it’s Arabia centre again and two Ainos get out, because, man, one needs to have a choice. Excitement! Adrenaline! It ends with a drama. An elderly Aino wants the seat from the fluffy one.
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arabia laura linsi
44
There is a new poster, a huge one, hanging between our houses in the place that was meant for children, for recreation, but works as a parking lot. The poster was installed during the night. It says Arabia. It says friendly and neighbours and fresh and air. It says share, it says communal. It says children and friendly again. WHO WANTS TO MOW THE LAWN THAT BELONGS TO EVERYONE? DOES EVERYONE HAVE A JOB? FOREVER? WILL TIME DEFINE THEIR HAIR-DOS OR IS THE PLACE THAT WILL DO THAT? First smiling people, “Hi to everyone!” Secondly grumpy retired ones with bad breath telling the children to give up their seats in a bus to rest their tired old thin greyskinned legs. They managed to put only one of these in the picture. “Excuse me? Oh, yes, I’ll stand alright.”
45
Have you the time? Have you the rhythm of wasteland -a place that seems to stand still? Where is it possible to feel the pulse? If I dig my hands into the earth, will I be able to sense it? The light tells me hours are passing. The weather tells me circumstances are changing. Although time seems to be absent. The wasteland is a promise and a memory. Steadily with one foot in the future And one in the past.
Walking through the wastelands I count my steps on the ground, just to make a measure. And put this place in relation to speed, distance and time. The wasteland is vast. I speed up my walk and I can feel my legs get tired. But when I look around it looks like I almost haven’t moved.
46
rhythm of a wasteland maja nyberg
Cranes are working far, far away, so far that I almost can’t perceive the movements that make concrete blocks slowly glide through the air. On the ground loose items and empty spraying cans are caught by the wind and set in motion.
The consistent distance between the lampposts provides a relative guideline about how far the metro is. A brief relief, reveals the wasteland as a wide forest. Easy to slip into, at times hard to find your way out from.
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messages in bottles nielsine otto pauli rikaniemi
yet to be written
dear,
sincerely,
unused space
49
writing revisited nielsine otto
you are forgetting
there was a scandal here you will see mee here again
emerged from
this condition !
50
51
in the same way, sat once a
lost
sad smile
You see I
suddenly recalled this moment Is such a thing possible? 52
You are lost !
at this moment
I shall follow you
Is such a thing possible? 53
REMAPPING HELSINKI
Mila Dimitrovska Maja Dimishkova
remapping helsinki mila dimitrovska maja dimishkova
4
54
 It is the spatial experiences, impressions and feelings that generate one’s personal
perception of the city. The idea of the project is to create a mental map that will replace the regular map and capture the phenomenon of particular places in the city. of the text was used with an aim to provoke people to think in another way  The medium about the reality that surrounds them. Words used in the map are those that were filled in
! -Ââ€? the gaps of the sentences stuck up around the city. It represents how the people perceive
and feel about those places, sharing their intimate thoughts, revealing them in the public
space.
I
The  medium  of  the  text  was  used  with  an  aim  to  provoke  people  to  think  in  another  way  about  the  reality  that  surrounds  them.  Words  used  in  the  the  city.  It  represents  how  the  people  perceive  and  feel  about  those  plac-Ââ€?
5
55
This city is small but cute. This street is awesome.
This is where I live.
Here used to be_______.
This place reminds me of________.
6 56
This park makes me go barefoot.
This space makes me feel
This square is too big.
This is where I laugh, stay, want to be.
Helsinki subway _________.
Mikka was here.
Helsinki the city of 7 57
58
Writing is Building Tutor Michael Hayes Participants Adina Anghel Maja Dimishkova Mila Dimitrovska Viviane Ehrensberger Rafael Kopper Laura Linsi Sean Mayl Maya Nyberg Nielsine Otto Pauli Rikaniemi Gordan Vitevski With Thanks to The organisers of Wastelands, EASA 2012 The staff of Suvilahti Happi Building Kevin Donovan Mark Price & Emmett Scanlon for their interest and references
Es ist: Wüstes Land. Ödnis. Brachland. Gebrochen unter dem Druck der Industrie und seinen ätzenden Resten. Schrott und Abfall. Rost überall. Aber auch: Eine einmalige Flora. Eine Schatzkammer. Ein Ausbruch aus der Ordnung. Der letzte Rest Zuflucht vor Kapitalismus und Konsum. Übersättigt von Sauberkeit und schönen Bildern fühlen wir uns magisch angezogen von dieser Hässlichkeit und suchen Poesie in verwaschenen Farben und Zweckentfremdung. Vielleicht auch: Das Kind in uns, der Spieltrieb, der uns klettern und springen macht. Federn neben verbogenen Metall neben Plastikkanistern. Der Zufall komponiert die stimmigsten Bilder. Der Geruch nach Benzin, nach Meer, nach Möglichkeit. Und auch: Bloss eine Frage der Zeit bis auch diese letzte Insel der imaginären Freiheit dem Hunger der Städte weichen muss.
hawn ninstab, magħhom niddeverti. Iskot Ma. Tnewwaħx aktar. Inħobbok Ma. L-imħabba qatt mi ser tintemm, iżda iċ-ċirkostanzi rrikjedew bidla. Nifhem li kliemi huma iebsin, iżda webbes qalbek u ħallini ntir. Trieqti għadha kemm bdiet u nixtieq niskopri wisq qabel ma tintemm. Birikli trieqti bix-xewqat sbieħ tiegħek, forsi din iż-żjara tixgħed id-dawl fuq din id-dalma tant persistenti li ninstgħab fiha. Titlifx it-tama Ma, emmen fijja. Nemmen li anki f ’lejl bikri jidru il-kwiekeb. Għalissa għadni biss maħrub, mirbuħ mill-kilba għallbidla. Dejjem tiegħek, Jien
Нека биде просто. И онака никој нема да го разбере текстов. И сликата што сакам да ја опишам. Ќе остане нејасна. Како што ми е нејасна и мене. Сите ја гледаат од далеку. Се движат околу неа. Низ, под, до, внатре во новата слика. Но не можат да ја видат. Да ја допрат, да Għażiża Ma, ја разберат. Ninstab f ’post xott, iżda aktar А таа, imxarrab minn art twelidi. L-arja сјае t’hawn hija ferm aktar qarsa minn свети dik ta’ xtutna. Irrabjat għal ħafna одбива raġunijiet. Irrabjat lejk. Irrabjat lejja одбива и зраци од сонцето innifsi. Ittamajt li dan il-post jiftaħli те покрива għajnejja, bħal muftieħ li jiftaħ bieb те затвора mgħaluq għal għexieren ta’ snin. го затвора и погледот Naf li d-deċiżjoni kienet tiegħi, и реката iżda inti missek għaraft dak li kien и небото ser jiġri fil-ġejjieni. Int imbikma и приказните min naħa u jien min oħra. Meta Сликата што сакам да ја опишам tħares lejn kamarti, hekk vojta u не припаѓа никаде. Ни денес, ни siekta, jinġemgħalek id-dmugħ fi пред некоја година, ни кога јас бев xfar għajnejk. Vojta u moħlijja dik мал, ни кога вие бевте млади. il-kamra issa. Missek timbarra u Сликата има две димензии. tħassar it-traċċi kolla ta tfuliti. Tibkix Сликата не е простор, и секој Ma, għaliex bkejt bizzejjed f ’darek. обид да насликаме место е просто Tibkix Ma, għaliex issa żmieni мамење или убава лажга. newden u niskopri. Il-biki mhuwiex Удирање по две-три четки на оние ser jimlilek il-vojt, iżda jfassal aktar што сакаат да веруваат. problemi. Kemm hi stramba l-affari, kemm miniex imdorri naħseb f ’dan Tegelikult on tühermaad Helsl-ilsien; ilsien missierijietna. Ilsien ingis kellegi fantaasia. Nüüd on vojt u rrelevanti. Ilsien persistenti u siin ringikäidud küll ja mida ikka arroganti. Naf xi tfisser it-telfa ma. pole, seda pole. Juba usungi natuke Xewqti ma nqatgħatx hawnhekk. urbaniste ja nende propagandat L-art hawn ijja vojta daqs kemm hi tühermaade väärtustamisest. Kovojta kamarti. Hawnhekk mhuwiex halikud korrektsed põhjamaalased posti, dawn mhumiex niesi. Iżda tahavad tühermaadeks nimetada
oma ärakultuuristatud tehaseid, tehnoparke ja sadamaalasid, aga need on hoopis mõni eksklusiivsem, mõni alternatiivsem, mõni rohkem, mõni vähem korras kultuuri- või poodlemiskeskused. Tallinnale iseloomulikku täiesti iseseisvat kurbromantilist tühermaade süsteemi siin ei kohta. Omapärased ökosüsteemid, kodutud inimesed, prügi, pori, kilekotid, tuul, ebamgavus või isegi hirm, kindlasti pimedus, tühjus ja totaalne mahajäetus – midagi sellist pole ma siin veel kordagi näinud. Stor, vidsträckt, övergiven. Kommer man att kunna tvätta bort melankolin, eller kommer den bara att transformeras då de nya byggnaderna reser sig över det öde området. Det är tyst, men en enda blick över landskapet berättar mer än tusen ord. Herr Wasteland är både poet, romanförfattare och historieundervisare. Fabriksklockan har stannat. Tiden har inte stannat, men den är definitivt inte närvarande. Pulsen är stilla. Lugn. Som om den sov. Eller är det ett tillstånd av koma? När denna öde plats vaknar igen kommer det inte att känna igen sig själv. Men det kommer att vara samma vind som blåser över taken. Samma jordmån som de nya husens fundament tränger igenom. Efter ett tag har pulsen hittat en rytm som går i takt med att det nya finner sin form. Потрошено Се собира и чкрипи постои во празно неподвижно, се витка, се растворува во темно сиво, на милион делови околу, помеѓу, во себе меморира и заборава, го замаглува видот, го преминува времето некое утре, некогаш, сега успорува за повторно да забрза место преживеано еднаш, двапати, стопати, одново над, во, низ, преку чека немир во мирување.