Alvar Aalto Saga. Chapter 2: Rovaniemi and reindeers

Before coming to Helsinki, I had made a list of buildings I wanted to visit. Quite a few of them were obviously designed by Alvar Aalto. However, I was not being very ambitious and only wrote down the ones located either in Helsinki or somewhere near the capital, thinking that there is a small chance I will have the time or the opportunity (or the courage) to travel much further. Thus I had never even hoped to see any of Aalto’s designs in, for example, Jyväskylä or Rovaniemi. But, with a little bit of luck, I managed to reach Rovaniemi last Sunday (see Part 1 of the whole adventure – here) and visited the three buildings that are known as the city’s cultural and administrative centre.

Aalto’s work in Rovaniemi took place for over more than three decades and included projects of various scales. As it is also with many other towns in Lapland, most of the buildings found in Rovaniemi today have been built during the second half of the 20th century, because in 1944 it was significantly damaged by Germany in the Lapland War. Nearly all the old wooden buildings were entirely burned down, and the city infrastructure was simply nonexistent. In order to bring Rovaniemi back to life and to establish it once more as the capital of Lapland as well as a significant centre in the northern Finland, Aalto created a new master plan for the city. Inspired by the shape of a locally very well-known resident – the reindeer, the new plan acquired the name ‘Reindeer Antler Plan’.¹ But as it happens with all genuinely great ideas, they are never fully realised. However, despite of all the changes in the initial proposals, the city, as it is today, has still grown loosely based on the antler plan. Though, does it really work this way, that is another question.

The most well-known Aalto’s project in Lapland is the cultural and administrative centre of Rovaniemi which consists of the Rovaniemi Library, Lappia Hall, and Rovaniemi Town Hall. The overall scale of this centre is quite large for a place like Rovaniemi, but because of the buildings being kept low and because of the amount of the space that has been generously given to the greenery and the public plaza in front of it, the atmosphere is very pleasant and relaxing.

I seem to have developed a tendency to visit amazing buildings either during their renovation periods or weekends/holidays, when everything is closed. Needless to say, it was a Sunday when I was in Rovaniemi, therefore the Town Hall and the Lappia Hall were both closed, while the library had only the small reading rooms open. But I will get to that later, because what I did first, and what I would have done first in any case, was to walk around the plaza and to explore the buildings from outside (still learning from my mistake with the Rock Church).

It is nearly impossible to walk across the plaza without stopping for at least a few times to take a picture of something. With every step you take, the angles change, new details appear, while others hide behind the trees. In a very clever way, the place does not reveal itself completely when you first approach it. Instead, it holds your attention and keeps you alert as new surprises constantly appear in the most unexpected places. And, keeping that in mind, I managed to find four different reindeer sculptures located in various places throughout the plaza – some being more exposed, others hidden better than Easter eggs in a tall grass. It is always nice to find art in otherwise ordinary places like this, but it is even more enjoyable to find art which is somehow strongly linked to the place where it is exhibited. And there certainly could not be a more appropriate place for a reindeer sculpture (or four), considering that in Lapland there are more reindeers than people and remembering that Aalto’s designed master plan for Rovaniemi was inspired by the shape of said animal.

The Town Hall, which I am the least fond of, is based on a Y-shaped plan and the tower certainly has at least a distant resemblance to the volumetric composition that also appears in the Essen Opera House and the Finlandia Hall.

I have to admit that this must be probably one of my least favourite Aalto’s buildings, but, considering that the plans and the drawings were altered by others in the Aalto’s office after his death (the building was completed in 1988; Aalto died in 1976), I am not surprised. It can definitely be felt that the project lost its concept somewhere in the making. The feeling when you stand in the courtyards created by the dull and repetitive rectangles, which mostly accommodate office spaces, is quite depressive and you could not tell the difference between this and pretty much any other building of a similar scale and function built elsewhere around the same time. The tower, which makes the building at least slightly exciting, immediately reminded me of something, but I was not able to figure out what. Until a few minutes later, after staring at it very intensively, I realised that this something had been standing all this time between me and the building.

Talk about contextualisation…

Now, the Lappia Hall is something entirely different. Although it apparently imitates the surrounding fells, I found a much greater similarity between the building’s organic wave-like roof lines and the round foggy hill tops emerging far in the distance when you look towards north.² The difference between the east and the west façade is so significant that, when a picture of each is placed side by side, it appears more like two unrelated buildings. However, when you get to see Lappia in three dimensions, it does not feel like that at all. Instead, you find a building that is in harmony with itself and its surroundings, and has a sense of completeness about it. On a different note, when I first walked around the Lappia Hall and saw its west façade (the one broken down into many smaller volumes), I nearly tripped over as I kept noticing all the similarities there are between my final design project which I did at the university and this building. The building that I had never seen in any pictures (not from this side, anyway) before. Made me wonder if I should worry about the state of my mind or be proud that, as it seems, I have almost taught myself to think like Alvar Aalto.

And, finally, there is the library. On the outside it does not appear to be very big. Probably because it is quite long and narrow, with only one floor raised above the ground. It is certainly one of those buildings that are inwards focused and have a very minimal exterior, but it is in no way boring.

The skylights above the main reading room, which opens up towards the piazza in a fan-shaped form, in some way become the highlight of the entire library and establish its very peculiar and unmistakable look.

As you enter the building, it feels more like you are visiting someone’s house – the atmosphere is very relaxed and homely. From the hallway it is possible to reach the exhibition room, the magazine and newspaper rooms, and also the main reading space. As I mentioned earlier, technically the library was partially closed the day I visited it, but the incredibly kind receptionist agreed to unlock the main reading room and let me in to take a look around. The very modest exterior of this building definitely does not give even the slightest hint about what is hiding behind its walls. The first impression when you enter this space is breath-taking – the room appears incredibly spacious and deep, with its open-plan organisation allowing the visitor to overlook the entire place from almost every corner.

Most of the reading tables are located in small pockets below the ground floor level in the central part of the space, while a continuous path along the perimetre of the room gives access to all the bookshelves placed against the external walls and eventually leads straight to the help desk. The mixture of the artificial and natural light creates a very interesting and dynamic atmosphere and a visual illusion that the ceiling is freely floating some distance above the walls. Once you step down into one of the small reading islands, you are completely enclosed by books as the shelves are now rising high above your head. Then with that feeling of being safe and hidden from everyone and everything, you can fully concentrate on your book.

And that was my encounter with Aalto in Rovaniemi.

These three (or at least two) particular buildings probably belong to that type of architecture which, no matter what angle you try, may look flat and dull in photos, but leave you breathless once you have seen it in reality. They are vibrant and very responsive, but not a single photo can do them justice. That vibe can only be perceived once you become a physical part of their surroundings.

And now that the place no longer feels so far away and intimidating, I certainly intend to one day return and cross off the remaining buildings on my list.

1. ”Reconstruction Plan for Rovaniemi”, Culture pictures of Lapland, http://lapinkavijat.rovaniemi.fi/aalto/jkaava_en.html

2. ”Lappia Hall”, Alvar Aalto Foundation, http://file.alvaraalto.fi/search.php?id=233

The Arctic Circle.

A little different, a little more personal, but still with some fancy architecture.

Last weekend I had an incredible opportunity to visit the Arctic Circle. For someone who is a winter person; who loves darkness, wilderness, cold weather, and snow; whose dream has always been (and still is) to one day visit the South Pole, this trip felt like a confirmation that everything can be possible and that even the furthest corners of the Earth are not that far away and unreachable.

After setting off on a night train from Helsinki, I found myself awoken already in Lapland. It was quite spectacular to watch the vast Lappish forests waking up right before my eyes. Between 7 and 9 am the endless dense line of trees that stretched along the rail tracks slowly emerged from the ghostly dark blue mist and turned from eerie black silhouettes into glistening frost-covered trunks. Upon the arrival at the Kemi train station, the low morning sun had also just made its appearance and everyone’s eyes were filled with the broken light rays reflecting from the thin layer of ice which covered all the puddles. The temperature that morning had dropped to nearly -4ºC, so, you know – basically still summer.

Situated right next to the Bothnian Bay in the western Lapland, the small town of Kemi is known for its historically important port, paper mills and the world’s biggest snow castle, which is rebuilt every year and can be visited from January until April. Although my very first tour guide that morning had four legs, a tale and did not speak any human language whatsoever, she agreed to take me on her daily morning walk and showed me all the most popular houses in the neighbourhood which had also been approved and marked by her friends.

The majority of the family houses in this region seem to have a standardised shape and plan and are only one storey high, as it would otherwise be quite difficult to maintain the entire house warm during the winter. The remarkably simple and minimal low-rise buildings also blend in with the surrounding landscape, resembling the plain open fields and the lakes that have been stripped down by the northern winds to the point where not a single excessive detail is left.

My next stop was Tornio, which is the oldest town in Lapland and borders Sweden. Being almost of the same size as Kemi (which is very close to Tornio) and having gone through very similar historical events and developments, the town does not differ that much from its neighbour. Although Tornio’s history is long, most of the buildings that form the town centre are built during the last century. However, among those bland and expressionless blocks, there are also quite a few well-preserved and stunning historical buildings which carry a strong vibe of Lapland’s vernacular design.

Because the town is small and its very centre is relatively defined by only a couple of streets, it is possible to drive through it without even realising that you just visited the centre. And then, before you know it, you are in Sweden, with the only indication of that being a massive IKEA store covered with signs and posters in Swedish. The borderlines between these countries may hardly be visible and almost nonexistent in some places, but the identity of each one of them is still very distinct. I have often said how I hate the very general term ‘Scandinavian design’. No, it is not Scandinavian design – it is either Finnish, or Swedish, or Danish, or Norwegian design. It does not matter that they might look almost the same or follow similar concepts. They remain unique and should not (and CANNOT) all be put under one label. Therefore it did not surprise me at all that only a few kilometres away from the Tornio centre I suddenly found buildings like this in Haparanda (Tornio’s twin city on the Swedish side of the border) – buildings that you simply would not be able to find anywhere in Finland.

And at that point the existence of any written signs or scary border guards becomes irrelevant, because it is enough to just look at the buildings to know that you are now being immersed in another culture.

Maybe it was the actual place, maybe it was me being too used to big(-ger) cities, but now looking back at the impressions I got from Kemi and Tornio, I feel like none of these town centres possessed a strong sense of identity. It has been less than a week since I visited them, but the images in my mind are already mixing together and I can barely recall any specific facades.

What really stood out was the vernacular architecture, the historical buildings located further out of the centre. Which is great…but when you are only able to remember random buildings without any context, it makes you think – the place was definitely missing something essential, something that would pull it all together and make it distinctive as a whole.

Anyway. As if this had not already been a day full of events, overwhelming sights and experiences, I received an unexpected offer to continue my journey that evening and go 120 km up north to Rovaniemi. The city which is not only the home of Santa Claus but has also been almost in its entirety replanned and redesigned by Alvar Aalto, after being destroyed in the Lapland War (1944-45). Did not have to ask me twice.

If you are ever in Rovaniemi and do not visit Santa Claus, you should be really ashamed of yourself. Although for me the whole experience was a little bit ruined by two things. Firstly, I was visiting Lapland during the most depressing time of the year (all leaves just fallen down; no snow yet; only rain and dirt) when even all the elves have dim looks on their faces. Secondly, they charge you 30 Euros for a picture with Santa Claus. … Merry Christmas to you too.

Luckily, Rovaniemi has a lot of other things and sights to offer for those who are interested in culture, architecture and nature. In fact, there are so many that it is certainly not enough with one day to see it all, as I learned it the hard way.

Then, of course, there is a lot to see for those who are particularly interested in the work of Alvar Aalto. Even though I did not get the chance to visit all of his buildings, the ones I did see turned out to be enough for quite a long written report. Therefore I decided to dedicate a separate post for just that.

Two other must-see places are the exhibition and science centres – Pilke and Arktikum, which are located right next to each other on the edge of Rovaniemi centre. Pilke focuses on the current forest issues and educates about all the smart and sustainable ways the forest can be used. Arktikum offers a very thorough and detailed insight into the diverse life forms that inhabit Lapland and other Arctic regions around the world, also touching on issues such as pollution and global warming. Being truly passionate about both of these subjects, I was very upset that I only had time to visit one of these centres. So I went to Arktikum.

First opened in 1992, with its newest part completed 5 years later, the building itself is quite something. The north-south positioned central hallway, which is also the only part of the building visible above the ground, ends with an over 10 m high glazed wall, supposed to create that feeling that the visitor is linked to the North. The entirely glazed roof together with the atrium make the already tall central space appear even taller and enable it to remain well-lit even at twilight.

The walls are used as photo exhibition space, while numerous doors along both sides of the hallway take you to the interactive exhibition rooms built into the hill. Since the building provides such in-depth information about global warming, its causes and outcomes, I was not completely sure if the four black buckets, catching the occasional water drops from the ceiling, that I noticed in different parts of the hallway were actually a part of the exhibition which demonstrated the process of ice melting caused by global warming or was it the roof struggling with Lapland’s weather. If it was the latter, I imagine they are in a serious need for some big donation in a form of plastic buckets as the winter approaches.

It is also definitely worth wandering through the little park next to Arktikum, from where you can see how its glazed skeleton emerges from the ground, resembling one of those glaciers silently resting on the bare hill slopes in Arctic.

And then, as you turn away from the building and face the north, you can see the bridge over the Ounasjoki River with its lights stretching into the northern Lapland and disappearing far in the dark. Somewhere in a land which I have yet to explore.

More on:

Tornio church – http://www.tornio.seurakunta.net/?sid=232

Pilke – http://www.tiedekeskus-pilke.fi/en/

Arktikum – http://www.arktikum.fi/EN/

The Finnish Sacral. Part 1.

Last Sunday I did the unthinkable (for me) – I went to a church. Two, in fact.

But when you are in Finland, the ‘going to church’ experience can be something entirely different from what most people understand with this phrase. Hopefully, these two examples will explain it.

The first place I went to was the Kamppi Chapel of Silence, located in the south-east corner of the Narinkka Square in central Helsinki.

The chapel has found home among some very prominent neighbours, including the Structuralist giant – Kamppi Centre which holds the title ‘largest construction site in Finnish history’, and the former Helsinki Central Bus Station building, built in the 19th century as a part of a larger complex of Russian barracks.¹ The square itself is quite a unique place. Despite the fact that it is situated right next to Mannerheimintie (one of the biggest and busiest streets in Helsinki), it is always surprisingly quiet there. Even during the most active times of the day.

The chapel is impossible to miss. Once you have spotted it in the first place, that is. Due to the difference in ground levels, the building is half-hidden from the view if you approach the Narinkka Square from the other large street, Simonkatu, which goes along its south edge.

Not only is the chapel sitting about 3 metres below the street level but also a line of trees and the entrance to the underground parking space underneath the Kamppi Centre create a second layer of camouflage. There is no direct entrance from the outside into the large wooden volume, which at first seems to be all there is of this building. Two access points along with a small gallery space and all the service rooms are located in an adjoining volume that visually disappears underground beneath Simonkatu and is externally finished in black, directing all the attention and the emphasis to the wooden structure – the actual chapel and the heart of this building.

Even though I know barely anything about any religion, I feel like this space deserves a biblical reference. So the best I can do is to say that, upon entering the chapel, the atmosphere inside made me immediately think – this must be how an upturned Noah’s Ark would look and feel like. And by that I certainly do not mean the feeling of desperation whilst being trapped underneath a flipped boat and knowing that you will probably drown because you cannot get out. Quite the opposite. The smoothly finished alder walls that enclose the space from all directions make you feel safe and protected, while the dark blue floor, which stunningly contrasts with the light wood, reinforces the sense of peacefulness.

And then you look up to the ceiling (by which point you should be already sitting somewhere, or else you will find yourself on the floor). The first question I had to answer in my mind was – am I looking at a manmade structure or a solar eclipse?

The skylights create a warm aureole around the central part of the ceiling, bringing in just enough daylight for the visitor to maintain some sort of a connection with the outside world, at least on a subconscious level, but without getting distracted by the never-ending motion that belongs to the city life outside the walls.

As soon as the door closes behind you, there is also an overwhelming feel that you have just been magically transported to Japan. Not because of the group of Japanese tourists I encountered on the way in, but because of the place’s striking similarity to some of the works by Shigeru Ban and Tadao Ando. Although the resemblance is not perhaps literal, but rather a one that makes you automatically draw a mental map full of certain cultural associations. Scandinavians most certainly know how to handle wood and how to accentuate its unique qualities. But their designs, with almost no exception, reveal a touch of roughness and wilderness, staying true to their identity which undoubtedly has also been shaped from the very beginning by the harsh climate. While most of the Japanese designs possess a sense of absolute tranquility and perfect delicacy, almost as if every surface was finished with a layer of silk. And that is the feeling that you get inside the Chapel of Silence – a place that becomes something more of a zen garden for you to meditate in and to forget (or to find – depending on what your mind needs).

My second destination, only a seven-minute-long walk away from the Narinkka Square, was the Temppeliaukion kirkko or the Rock Church, which I first visited back in 2012 and where I had already returned many times since arriving in Helsinki this fall.

All this time I used to think that the main space inside this church is the reason why everyone should go see it and which will give you the most descriptive and captivating impression of this place.

How naive of me to think that there is a single building in Finland without an exterior that has its own narrative.

Tightly surrounded by seven-storey high residential and commercial buildings a little bit off the closest main roads, the church is located in a place where you definitely would not expect to find one. Tourists, dropped off at the main entrance, head straight inside. Regular visitors hurry through the main door, without paying much attention to anything. It is all about the main entrance. Sadly.

So, finally, I did what I should have done on my very first visit there – I actually walked around the building….

To my surprise, at the back of the church I found a small path (a very legal one too – see the picture below with the proof in a form of a very formal waste bin that you would not find on any illegal path) which leads up the rock until you reach the roof level.

This is another thing I like about Finland – sometimes you are allowed to enter and climb places where in other countries you would have probably been arrested for doing so. Finns are quite laid-back about everything, including things that concern safety. However, do not confuse that with ignorance and them not caring, when it is the very opposite. It is just that they allow people to use their own common sense and to think for themselves, instead of simply putting up a barrier and a ‘Stop’ sign in places where even the smallest possibility of any risk could arise.

Resembling a UFO crash from one angle and a completely random pile of rocks from another, this building is definitely one of the finest examples of the Scandinavian idea about the harmony in which people and nature should coexist. It shows that any place can be altered to acquire a specific function, without completely destroying its original state. In the midst of the very dense and artificial urban environment, this rock, covered in grass, moss, bushes and trees, becomes a reminder that nature is still present everywhere, even if you cannot always see it (think of air and sun radiation, for example). And by encouraging people to interact with it, this also becomes a reminder of how closely intertwined everything is, which is exactly why putting a ‘Stop’ sign at the bottom of that rock would be utterly absurd.

The atmosphere inside the Rock Church differs from the one in the Chapel of Silence on pretty much every level. However, the one thing they both have in common is that immediate feeling of safety and calmness after entering the building. The Kamppi Chapel seems to be all about being with yourself, finding your thoughts in the silence and clearing your mind. In the Rock Church there is something about that feel of togetherness, something almost primeval – people gathering in a rock cave, music playing, and the fire burning in the middle (in this case, the copper dome ceiling will have to do as a metaphorical fire).

The skylights play an important role as well. After entering the space, the sunlight creates unique patterns on the floor and the walls, resulting in a view that awakes some inexplicable emotions.

And that is the role of a church in today’s Finnish society. It has become a cultural place for many (non-religious) activities, a (non-religious) music venue, or in some cases, as with the Kamppi Chapel, a place where to escape the mind- and soul-polluting modern life. It almost feels like their function of serving as places of worship is now secondary. The location pattern of these contemporary churches also does not go by unnoticed. Although it may seem irrational to place a sacral building in an entirely commercial area right next to a shopping centre, when you think about it, it does not seem impossible at all that many of the people working in these nearby buildings pay a quick visit to this chapel either during their lunch break or on the way home. Everyone talks about designing these public spaces that would encourage more frequent social interactions in the time when, more than anything, we crave a peaceful place just for ourselves. And right when we need them the most, these kind of spaces have become a nearly extinct species.

1. D.B.Bordas, ”Kampin keskus”, Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona, http://www.publicspace.org/en/works/d169-kampin-keskus.

Alvar Aalto Saga. Chapter 1: The Aalto House

How did that saying go – show me your friends and I will tell you who you are?

Well, for architects it must be something like – show me your home and I will tell you who you are.

I imagine everyone must have a role model or two, at least at some point in their lives. Someone who inspires you to run that extra mile or to learn that language you would have otherwise never learned. Someone whose way of speaking makes you want to jump up from the seat and go straight to the library (or just use Google, I am being very old-school here) to find out more about what they were talking about. Someone whose words and actions you find resonating very deeply within yourself.

That last one is how I feel about Alvar Aalto.

Invading someone’s private space, even if they are technically no longer living there, is something I absolutely loathe. Having said that, could you possibly refuse if an opportunity arose to take a look at the place which has inspired and observed the creation of some of your most admired works; a place designed by its owner for himself, therefore [arguably] becoming a reflection of this person? A person who you have looked up to for a long time. I guess the fact that this blog post exists is also the answer to that question.

Let’s begin with Munkkiniemi, the area where the Aalto House is located. There is nothing particularly exceptional about this neighbourhood on the east side of Helsinki. Quite densely inhabited, this place is a home to many Functionalist buildings dating from the late 1930s, when the most extensive phase of the Munkkiniemi development took place. Although there is an access to the sea and many green spaces, some of the smaller streets feel cramped and somewhat outdated. Almost as if this place never made it to the 21st century. Nevertheless, you get the feel that everything is being looked after with a great care and all the buildings seem to have found a useful function, be it the original or a new one.

Back in 1935 Riihitie must have been quite an exposed street with a very different feeling, while today it is shyly hiding behind the trees that enclose it from the south and tall apartment buildings that create an impenetrable border along the opposite side of the road. Although Alvar Aalto and his family moved to Munkkiniemi right before most of its big developments had begun, he must have been prepared for that because the house has taken a very defensive position towards the street.

A tall brick wall and a façade with only two windows (one in the space initially used by the office’s secretary, the other one hinting at the location of the staircase inside the building) is what the visitor is being greeted by upon arrival. As you approach the entrance, one of the main notions used throughout the building makes itself apparent – the house can be perceived on two different scales: massing and volumes, details and textuality. What first appears to be just two building volumes in different colours, on a closer inspection reveal two delicate textures. One of them being the dark wood and the other one – white painted brick.

It is no secret that the Aalto House became the experimental ground for many ideas which some years later were repeated (in an improved manner) in Villa Mairea. There are countless similarities between these two buildings – from the external appearance to the relationship between the internal spaces and the use of certain elements to achieve a particular atmosphere.

The journey through the house begins in a small hallway which leads in three directions further inside the building. One door takes you to the studio space through the reception area, another one leads to the kitchen, while the third one opens up to the living room. Aalto’s signature – metaphorical expressions of nature’s presence indoors – is written all over the place. The most astonishing, as I had expected, is the use of daylight, especially in the living and dining rooms.

Windows stretching nearly across all south-facing walls, firstly, make the rooms appear more spacious, but, most importantly, they establish the feeling that the garden on the other side of the glass becomes an extension to the rooms which you can enjoy and observe without leaving the fireside on a cold winter’s day.

Having learned this a few years ago from the Schröder House in Utrecht, I know that sometimes there is more than meets the eye when it comes to buildings of this scale and function designed by certain architects. But unlike Gerrit Rietveld, who regardless of the initial request to design a house as open as possible still, in my opinion, went quite high up on the scale of ridiculousness trying to show off all the tricks he had, Aalto is being a lot more modest and, dare I say, practical. Sliding doors that disappear into walls and thick curtains that also function as a warm and homely interior decor allow to create a large open plan space as they connect the studio, the living and the dining rooms. And, when required, they become the distinct boundaries that easily separate the public/working space from the private rooms. Although when our tour guide demonstrated another modifiable element of the house – the dining table whose length can be altered when necessary, with the additional extension parts being kept in a secret compartment built at the back of a cupboard, I could not refrain from smiling. Boys and their toys.

One more thing that becomes noticeable early on inside the house is the change in floor levels and the use of different ceiling heights. Steps from the living room and the reception, being the lowest points, lead up to the studio space, from where another six steps take you further up to a small study room. However, it is in no way an indication of the hierarchy of spaces, but rather the result of adapting the house to the terrain (because that is what you do when you are Alvar Aalto, or a Finn in general). The ceiling height in the living room seems lower than in other parts of the house, creating a very warm and intimate atmosphere which makes you want to curl up on the sofa next to the fireplace and watch the yellow leaves as they fall from the trees in the garden. Meanwhile the double height ceiling in the studio, just behind the wall, establishes a very uplifting and refreshing mood that would certainly contribute to the level of productivity in this space.

A lot of the furniture around the house is the production of Artek, designed by Aalto himself. However, there are also a few lamps created by the Danish designer Poul Henningsen as well as some beautiful artwork and sculptures by Le Corbusier and other artists – all of which enhance Aalto’s designs and fit the overall atmosphere very well. To find so many works by various designers, painters and sculptors featured in this house is not a surprise, knowing that Aalto prefered to make friends with people involved in any creative field but architecture. Quite understandable – imagine all your gatherings with someone constantly venting about how dysfunctional is the parking space outside their house in relation to their neighbour’s space, and how it distorts the axis that would have otherwise made a seamless visual connection between their living room window and the unappreciated miracle that is the 100-year-old shed across the street.

Finally, it would not be an Aalto house if it did not have a magnificent garden. Although in this case most of the credit must be given to his first wife Aino. Even here in the garden the play between contrasts – the open and the enclosed spaces, the public and the private – is in full swing. Where the white brick wall encloses the territory, the garden is open and transparent, without any trees in the way.

Where the wall ends and a rocky slope begins, a line of trees has been planted in the middle of the garden to hide the living room windows behind them. These trees also create a small private internal courtyard, leaving on the other side a pathway, which continues around the house. In a very simple but effective way, using mainly just trees and rocks, there is the same kind of distinction between spaces of different purposes established in the garden, as there is inside the house using the obvious elements such as walls and doors.

Describing what it meant for me to be able to walk through these spaces is pointless, as it is something that would lose its essence and become trivial and banal once put into words. Do I think this is the perfect house? Absolutely not. The flat roof, although an essential element of any Modern style building, in this latitude makes me want to raise a lot of questions. Also, was there really a need for a second living room upstairs, when the space could have been used to reposition the relatively small and dark children’s rooms so that they would be facing south? And why, of all the places in the house, would you put skylights in the closet? But as I said at the beginning about the house being a possible reflection of Aalto’s personality – as it is with people, we rarely manage to thoroughly understand someone because they are in control of deciding how much to reveal themselves and how much to keep back. The same goes for a house. If you have not lived in it, you will never fully understand the meaning of each space, or the specific lifestyle of the family which occupies that building. Luckily, as a part of our evolution, we have learned to ignore the flaws and accept things as they are. And it is also how I will remember the home of my favourite architect – the October sun filling every corner of the living room with its light and warmth, the colourful leaves covering the balcony floor and the window sills, and those weird skylights in the closet…

Travelling through time and space. Suomenlinna.

My Finnish adventures began with a visit to Suomenlinna – the castle of Finland. Built on six small islands, it is located south of the mainland Helsinki and takes 20 minutes to get there by ferry.

The level of the fortification structure’s complexity is possibly also the most accurate reflection of Suomenlinna’s history altogether, being initially built by Swedes in 1748, later controlled by Russians, and finally regained by Finns along with their independence at the beginning of the 20th century. The place not only gives an insight into the military development throughout three different eras, but also beautifully manages to capture these three unique identities, gradually revealing numerous stories of each one as the visitor passes through the islands.

Once used as a sea fortress, a naval base, and a prison camp, today Suomenlinna is one of the UNESCO’s World Heritage sites and a home to the Naval Academy of Finland as well as approximately 800 local residents.

Having just stepped off the ferry at the main quay in the north of Suomenlinna, I felt as if one of my childhood dreams had come true and I suddenly found myself in one of those carefree, joyful places described by Astrid Lindgren in her books that I once used to know by heart. A miniscule village of colourful wooden villas transports you in time and place to another universe where your only problem becomes deciding which flowers to plant in the garden to match the colour of your house.

There is nothing quite like the Scandinavian dwellings that belong to the National Romanticism and the Nordic Classicism styles. While their simple yet delicate elements make the buildings appear elegant and light, these houses are probably the ultimate definition of home, stability and timeless values. Every single corner in the house is inviting you to feel your weight on its floorboards, to sit on a chair right next to the window and to lean against the balustrade in front of the house; it makes you feel like you belong.

Although these villas were built during the period when Suomenlinna was under the rule of the Russian Empire, the buildings still bear a much stronger resemblance to those found in other parts of Scandinavia rather than the ones in Russia dating from the same era as the ornamentation is very minimal.

With the main path continuing down south, the overall scale of the buildings change and so does the atmosphere. The structures grow taller and move closer together, creating a continuous impenetrable wall along both sides of the street, the paths become darker and narrower – the feel of the military presence slowly begins to enclose you.

The barracks from the Russian era and the older buildings that once used to support the dry dock within the fortress are now functioning as museums and conference rooms. Although their original façades raising up from the cobblestone streets strongly preserve an illusion that any moment King Adolf Frederick will appear from just around the corner to inspect the progress of his new fortress and warships.

And then, of course, there is the fortress itself. The complex stone structure has stood the test of time and today some of its tunnels are also opened to the public. Depending on the time of the day, the weather and your imagination’s activity level, the experience inside the tunnel can vary from ”let me out, I’m feeling claustrophobic” to ”OH MY GOD, THERE IS A GHOST AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL” (I am not going into details about which side of that scale I found myself closer to). Jokes aside, it is only inside these tunnels when the spectacular structure of the fortress becomes completely revealed. Low and narrow passageways are interspersed by deep dark rooms, almost pitch black stairways spiral up and down to landings filled with sunlight, and, before you know it, you are swallowed by a skillfully made labyrinth.

When you finally find the exit, it takes some time not only to adjust to the sun and wind, but also to shake off the feeling that the tunnels have put on your shoulders a heavy invisible load of stones. Although it is now absolutely quiet and peaceful within the fortress, it seems that an undying memory is engraved in its walls which still carry the fortification’s initial purpose and history.

The southern part of Suomenlinna (Kustaanmiekka) noticeably stands out from the other sites. The almost surreal tranquility, the open fields with the paths winding through the long grass and the view of the Baltic sea stretching out as far as the horizon let you finally take a deep breath after the depressive and overpowering atmosphere of the tunnels inside the fortress.

In fact, there is something almost Tolkien-like about this part of Suomenlinna (if every hobbit had a cannon on top of their houses). If you happen to be the only person there at the time, it does not take long until you are convinced that everyone else has left this planet a few decades ago. The cannons are still there – positioned and patiently waiting for the soldiers to return, the doors to the underground bunkers are partly opened – ready to immediately welcome those looking for a shelter. Everything is on hold, except the time.

It feels out of place to talk about military structures responding to their surroundings in any aesthetic manner, or containing metaphorical messages, or having sophisticated subconscious interactions with their occupants, when it is most important to focus on their functionality. And yet it seems that Suomenlinna has it all. To a degree. The illusion that the fortification walls have one day just grown out of the ground like a new sprout after the rain is probably a work of time rather than a conscious decision made from the very beginning of the construction. Although it is without a doubt that the use of local materials and vernacular building techniques (this goes for the older 18th-century structures as well as the later ones) has greatly contributed to the establishment of Suomenlinna’s identity and the sense of belonging to this place.

I suppose this only proves that, following the principles just mentioned, it is possible for any building and any structure to establish that bond with its surrounding environment. Over the centuries Suomenlinna has become a symbol with many meanings, but most importantly it seems that the place has always remained true to its original functions without trying to become something else. Perhaps that is also how after nearly half a century of serving mainly as a residential area it has managed to still capture the military atmosphere which evokes unique responses and feelings in every visitor today.

More on Suomenlinna:

http://www.suomenlinna.fi/en/

http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/583