The Brutalism Post, Part One: Introduction

This is part one of a five-part post about Brutalism.



University of Massachusetts at Dartmouth campus by Paul Rudolph. Photo via Library of Congress

No style of architecture so passionately divides even the most good-natured and level-headed people as Brutalism. The discourse surrounding Brutalism being “good” or “bad” is fierce and polemical. The “for” crowd lobbies on both aesthetic grounds – posting pictures of incredible and obscure structures and saying “I mean LOOK at this” – as well as political ones, citing in particular, how Brutalism was used to house thousands of people during the postwar period.

On the other hand, the “against” crowd brings up the failed urbanism of Le Corbusier that gave us the freeways and slum clearance that split and displaced entire swaths of city fabric, proclaiming that only architects or architecture enthusiasts like Brutalism, and that this is a testament to how out of touch they are with everyday people. “If you had to live or work in these buildings,” they say, “you’d feel differently.”

Unité d'Habitation by Le Corbusier. Photo by Thomas Nemeskeri, via Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

I’ve been a spectator to this debate since I first lurked in the Skyscraper City forums as a high school freshman, ten years ago, when Brutalism itself sparked the interest in architecture that brings me here today. I have, as they say, heard both sides, and when asked to pick one, my response is unsatisfying. Though my personal aesthetic tastes fall on the side of “Brutalism is good,” I think the actual answer is it’s deeply, deeply complicated.

Still, what is it about Brutalism that makes it so divisive? Why does a short-lived substyle of modern architecture elicit such vehement passion in so many people? What does it even mean for a style of architecture to be “good” or “bad”? You can see why I’m drawn to finally sitting down and penning this series, which has been simmering at the back of my mind since I started McMansion Hell three years ago. (By the way, Happy Birthday to this blog!!!)

Brutalism has a special way of inspiring us to ask big and difficult questions about architecture. “Is Brutalism good?” is really a question of “is any kind of architecture good?” - is architecture itself good? And what do we mean by good? Are we talking about mere aesthetic merits? Or is it more whether or not a given work of architecture satisfies the purpose for which it was built? Can architecture be morally good? Is there a right or wrong way to make, or interpret, a building?

Ferrier Estate, a now-demolished social housing complex in South London. Photo by Tim Slessor via Flickr (CC BY-NC 2.0)

I have bad news for you: the answers to all of these questions are complicated, nuanced, and unsatisfying. In today’s polemical and deeply divided world of woke and cancelled, nuance has gotten a bad rap, having been frequently misused by those acting in bad faith to create blurred lines in situations where answers to questions of morality are, in reality, crystal clear. This is not my intention here.

For centuries, the philosophical discipline of aesthetics has tried in vain to articulate some kind of clearly defined standard by which we can delineate whether or not a work of art is good, bad, moral or amoral. Architecture makes this even more complicated because unlike literature, painting, music, or art, we have to live, work, and exist in architecture. Not only does the question of whether or not we can separate the art from the artist exist in architecture, so to do questions of whether or not we can separate the building from the politics, from the culture, from the time period, from the urbanism, from the socioeconomic system, from the entire contents of everyday life in which it exists.

Orange County Government Center, Perspective Drawing, by Paul Rudolph. Photo via the Library of Congress.



Existential questions aside, there are other reasons to write about Brutalism. First, while we’ve been hemming and hawing about it online, we’ve lost priceless examples of the style to either demolition or cannibalistic renovation, including Paul Rudolph’s elegant Orange County Government Center, Bertrand Goldberg’s dynamic Prentice Women’s Hospital in Chicago, and the iconic Trinity Square, Gateshead complex, famous for the role it played in the movie Get Carter. My hope is that by bringing up the nuances of Brutalism before a broad and diverse audience, other buildings on the chopping block might be spared.

On an even broader note, I think Brutalism is worth writing about simply because a lot of people are rightly confused as to what it even is. The common practice of identifying Brutalism by the presence of a material - reinforced concrete - too broadly defines a style that belongs to a specific era and architectural praxis. There are so many buildings and styles called Brutalist that are not Brutalist that I’ve devoted the first two installments of this series to the subject “What Brutalism Is Not,” followed, of course, by “What is Brutalism?” The goal is that these two essays will be educational and interesting (with the added bonus of providing the reader with an arsenal of information that will make them as insufferable at dinner parties as I am.)

The third part in this series is devoted to the people of Brutalism - the architects, politicians, planners, writers, and philosophers, who signed their names to an architectural movement that spanned the globe. Finally, the last installment gathers all this information together and answers the question we’ve all been waiting for: is Brutalism good?

The Kyoto International Conference Center, designed by Sachio Otani. Photo by Chris Guy, via Flickr. (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

This is a series on Brutalism, but Brutalism itself demands a level of inquiry that goes beyond defining a style. Really, this is a series about architecture, and its relationship to the world in which it exists. Architects, as workers, artists, and ideologues, may dream up a building on paper and, with the help of laborers, erect it in the material world, but this is only the first part of the story. The rest is written by us, the people who interact with architecture as shelter; as monetary, cultural, and political capital; as labor; as an art; and, most broadly, as that which makes up the backdrop of our beautiful, complicated human lives.

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