Less a building than a container of raw space, Ryerson’s spectacular new Student Learning Centre offers a glimpse into a future where architecture is the start of a process that users must finish.

The eight-storey structure, which opened this week at the corner of Yonge and Gould Sts., is the city’s latest architectural landmark, a building whose abstract fritted windows, blue aluminum ceilings and canted concrete columns make it impossible to ignore.

Designed by Norwegian/American architectural firm Snohetta with Toronto’s Zeidler Partnership, Ryerson’s latest addition is a place of infinite possibilities. Every day, it will be made and remade by students as they rearrange the furniture, sit singly or gather in groups, talk noisily or whisper softly and generally reorganize things in their own image.

Architecture here is used as a way to create potential, not limit it. After all, the very idea of a learning centre means different things to different people, often at the same time.

Ryerson chief librarian Madeleine Lefebvre calls it “the library of the 21st century.” The only problem with that is that there isn’t a book in the house. On the other hand, maybe the “21st century” part of the description takes care of that. Books — 500,000 of them — can still be found in Kerr Hall next door; today, of course, students need look no farther than their laptop.

So what is a 21st-century library? Snohetta co-founder, Craig Dykers, calls it “interactive space.” The challenge,” he explains, “is to find a balance between introspective rooms where you can be quiet and the others where there can be quite a bit of noise.”

At first glance the centre’s interior spaces could be almost anything except a library. With a bit of imagination, it might be a new kind of airport waiting area. It could also easily accommodate a restaurant, café, maybe a club, office or a newsroom.

It is generic space, utilitarian but not in that thoughtless way of the merely cheap. The architecture here is a contradictory yet conscious mix of industrial materials and decorative finishes. Columns, for example, are basic grey concrete, but slightly off-kilter, which brings a sense of the unexpected to these spaces.

Each floor is different, but most of the room is dedicated to study. That means tables and chairs, small offices, bean bags, couches, work carrels and the like. What’s interesting is how students take their cues from their neighbours.

The most dramatic floor, the sixth, is called “the Beach.” This large, open terraced area slopes down to the west wall overlooking Yonge. It takes the idea of collaborative space to new level. The materials — mostly wood, glass and concrete — are simple, even mundane; what’s makes the space interesting is the way it moves up and down, creating walkways and seating in the process. It’s a room that takes the idea of versatility in new directions. This will be a study hall before exams; party central afterward.

“We were trying to move between two worlds,” Dykers explains, “the predictable and the intuitive. Not everything had to be completely organized. We didn’t want to straighten everything out.”

For Ryerson’s outgoing president, Sheldon Levy, the learning centre is part of a brilliant legacy that will be felt across the campus and the city beyond. This is one of those rare structures that asks not to be copied, but which will give permission to future generations to break with the past and discover their own needs — and their own architecture.

Christopher Hume can be reached at chume@thestar.ca