Tapiola. The Utopian dream.

Tapiola is an urban district in Espoo – one of the four cities (together with Helsinki, Vantaa, and Kauniainen) that form the Capital Region of Finland. Tapiola is best known for its developments which date back to 1950’s and 60’s and were designed following the principles of a garden city, first established by Ebenezer Howard. As I quickly realised, no description can really prepare you for what you eventually see and experience in Tapiola. However, I will try my best to describe how I perceived this place.

The initial goal in Tapiola was to create a low-density urban area with a dominant central element (the town centre) that would connect a number of residential neighbourhoods where a broad range of building types (varying in size and price) would exist side by side, allowing to break the social barriers between classes.¹ The main focus would then become the integration of the natural elements – water, forest, garden – into the community’s daily life.

As you start to explore the area, its spatial organisation and the network that consists of these residential neighbourhoods, motorways and pedestrian bridges, soon become clear. Although all the residential areas together form one city, each of these clusters feel somewhat isolated from the others. Partially because of the forested landscape creating a protective enclosure around each development, and also because of the main roads often splitting and becoming the boundaries of these neighbourhoods.

In some ways, it is a little difficult to see what is so special about Tapiola and why does it stand out so much from other typical Finnish suburbs since urban developments within forested landscapes are common everywhere in Finland. Perhaps it is that idea of high-rise buildings and one-storey family houses existing so naturally next to each other. The eastern neighbourhood of Tapiola, which is also the oldest of them all, is the best example that demonstrates how this concept works in the physical world.

One of the main rules that made a significant impact on the majority of the designs was the decision to preserve the natural terrain, to create buildings which would respond to it, and to find a way that would allow the residents to fully and effectively use the outdoor spaces.² That seem to have been achieved very well. The high-rise buildings, although externally appearing almost identical, have established very dynamic relationships between one another. This energetic feel is definitely to some extent created by the landscape which, for example, does not allow even for two neighbouring buildings to be built on the same ground level. To avoid the possibility of the tall houses becoming overwhelming and monotonous, their façades are also often broken down, resulting in an illusion that each house consists of many smaller fragments, thus also imitating the nature of the landscape.³

Small pockets between these houses accommodate little recreational zones and playgrounds right on the edges of the rocky slopes covered in moss and pine trees – a rather wild terrain which in most cases would have been left untouched and even made unreachable by placing a fence around it. However, here the outdoor social activities and the interaction with the forest is strongly encouraged.

Rows of tall apartment buildings and low private houses are separated only by narrow roads, creating a very unique environment. By the look of it, the initial goal of erasing the boundaries between different classes has been certainly reached. However, it feels that along with breaking these social barriers the privacy curtains have fallen as well. The one-storey family houses on Itäranta street that are completely exposed to the much taller apartment buildings on the opposite side of the road (which also has a higher ground level), resemble an entrance to the prison more than anything else, with the dark opaque doors and the high brick walls enclosing the courtyards. Although their occupants are able to enjoy the beautiful view of the waterfront on the west, it is hard to imagine how one could feel at ease on the east side of these dwellings, with the previously mentioned ‘defence systems’ constantly reminding that, if it was not for them, the family’s activities would turn into a theatre play on a brightly illuminated stage.

Tapiola’s centre, which has been designed as the connecting dominant element, differs from these residential neighbourhoods in some ways. From the very beginning its main function was to provide shared and equal facilities for all residents of this district, in order for Tapiola to become fully self-sustaining.⁴ Although the centre is also very green and large fragments of the natural landscape are preserved throughout the place, it is a lot denser than its surrounding neighbourhoods. Tapiola has its own cinema, public swimming pool, church, and it is the home of the Espoo Cultural Centre which accommodates ”concert hall (Tapiola Hall), theatre hall (Louhi Hall), gallery, Tapiola Library, Espoo Music Institute, Tapiola Citizen’s Office and Tapiola facilities of the Espoo Adult Education Centre”.⁵

Another notable component of Tapiola’s centre is a large building complex where shopping centres and various commercial organisations are located. This complex is a rather enormous maze with countless pedestrian paths winding through its structures. It is very easy to get lost in this labyrinth where you instantly feel trapped as there is almost not a single point from which you can see beyond its boundaries. Designed based on very futuristic notions, this shopping complex appears as a detached and isolated bubble among all its surrounding developments. Even though it retains the same fragmented style pattern, its position and connection with the rest of the central area is a little confusing. Certainly for those who are visiting the place for the first time.

Currently Tapiola is a large construction site – a new shopping centre, apartment buildings and transport infrastructure are all under the construction. It seems that now, more than half a century later, the original utopian ideas might become at least partially fulfilled once the new developments (including the metro stop) in Tapiola are completed. However, considering how inevitably different the very nature of these new designs will be compared to the current complex which forms Tapiola’s centre, there is a high risk that the place will lose its character. Perhaps it is true that some parts of the Tapiola had to be (re)developed and improved in order for them to become more integrated, but at the moment it feels that in only a couple of years an entirely different district will have taken the place of the existing one. Although the original Tapiola can be described as an unresolved Modernist experiment, it certainly suggests great ideas for the same problems that many urban planners struggle with today (e.g. lack of green spaces, alienation, destruction of natural landscape). Therefore it is extremely important to ensure that the place continues to grow without completely defying and abandoning the initial concepts.

1. Philip Pregill and Nancy Volkman, Landscapes in History: Design and Planning in the Eastern and Western Traditions. 2nd Edition, (New York:John Wiley & Sons, 1999).

2. Pregill and Volkman, Landscapes in History: Design and Planning in the Eastern and Western Traditions. 2nd Edition.

3. Elie G.Haddad, ed., and David Rifkind, ed., A Critical History of Contemporary Architecture: 1960-2010, (London:Ashgate Publishing, 2014).

4. Mark B. Lapping, ”Review: Building a New Town: Finland’s New Garden City-Tapiola by Heikki von Hertzen, Paul D. Spreiregen”, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 31, no. 3 (1972): 245.

5. ”History and architecture,” The City of Espoo, accessed November 26, 2015, http://www.espoo.fi/en-US/Culture_and_sport/Culture/Cultural_centres_and_cultural_houses/Espoo_Cultural_Centre/About_us/History_and_architecture

Puu-Vallila. The little wooden paradise.

As the November rain has taken over Helsinki and I am consuming countless cups of tea to cure my cold, it is time to dig out some of the pictures I took last month while everything was still sunlit and full of life. One of the places I went to was Puu-Vallila which forms a part of Vallila, a neighbourhood just north of central Helsinki. Mainly built between 1900 and 1920 for the working classes, this district precisely reflects my definition of an inhabitable environment that is capable of generating happiness and contributing to the wellness of its inhabitants.

Puu-Puu-Vallila, which translates as Wooden Vallila, is exactly what its name suggests – a small district consisting of only two-storey high wooden houses. However, the entire neighbourhood of Vallila is dominated by tall apartment buildings, most of which also date back to 1920’s and 1930’s. These developments were created in order to provide the working-class families with dwellings that would help to improve their living conditions and to establish a safe and strong community. How much of that was actually achieved is another question, but there is certainly a sense of unity which remains in Vallila even today. The names of the architects behind all these designs are certainly notable as well – Armas Lindgren (Finnish architect who worked with Eeliel Saarinen and taught Alvar Aalto), Jussi Paatela (Finnish architect who has designed many hospitals accross Finland), his brother Toivo Paatela, and Karl Hård af Segerstad (the Helsinki City Architect from 1907 until 1921).

The little wooden houses are well-hidden behind their tall neighbours that belong to the Nordic Classicism. Placed tightly next to each other, they form a distinct notion of a ‘district within a district’. And less than a minute after leaving Mäkelänkatu, where the large apartment buildings are raising up from the ground so densely that there is not even a space for a grain of sand to fall, you suddenly get a feel that you have left Helsinki behind and are now entering a small old village.

There is genuinely nothing that compares to a wooden house in my eyes. A unique relationship has evolved between humans and trees, as a result of wood being possibly one of the most versatile organic materials which has been present in our daily lives since the beginning of civilisation. Maybe it is the long history, or maybe the fact that tree is, after all, also a living being and therefore similar to us in many ways, but there is an undeniable invisible force that draws us to it and relaxes the mind once in its presence. Being well-aware of the psychological impacts wood can create, I was not at all surprised to find myself feeling much calmer and happier as soon as I was surrounded by these colourful houses.

Like any building that belongs to Nordic Classicism, these dwellings are very minimalistic, regular and straightfoward, but their appearance is far from dull and boring. The dormer windows cutting through the gambrel roof slopes add a vivid and engaging character to each house, while the boldly coloured wheatherboarding creates that final touch of uniqueness.

Although I just described these houses as minimalistic, once you start to examine them more closely, a number of elegant and delicate details reveal themselves. One of them being the house numbers. Instead of using the flat boring signs that the majority of buildings tend to have these days, here black triangular prisms are attached to each façade. With the house number being engraved on both of the rectangular faces that protrude from the vertical surface, it is easily noticeable from a greater distance, regardless of the side from which you approach the building. But, most importantly, these three-dimensional metal designs help to preserve the overall atmosphere of the past century which still lingers on these streets.

When I mentioned that Puu-Vallila has got all the elements which, in my opinion, define a truly successful and desirable environment for living, I was referring not just to the fact that all the dwellings are made out of wood but also to the level of greenery which encloses and interweaves with this area. Being positioned side by side in a continous line along the streets, these houses are sheltering gardens and internal courtyards of various sizes behind them. In such way, even though the occupants are located in a very central and urban neighbourhood, they still have got their own green spaces where to retreat, without having to actually leave the city. Although it was not the intention to design Puu-Vallila as a garden city, its outline appears to be following somewhat similar principles to those used to design Puu-Käpylä, another wooden district in Helsinki which was built around the same time and for the same purpose as Puu-Vallila (however, Puu-Käpylä is an actual example of a garden city, or rather – district). Here these courtyards and gardens might not be very large and might not receive an adequate amount of sunlight during the day for the people to grow enough food that would allow them to become completely self-sufficient. Nevertheless, they are perfectly suitable for social gatherings or any outdoor activities which would strengthen the sense of community among all the inhabitants.

It is certainly difficult to perceive all the details and peculiarities of a place where you have never lived and where you are just a temporary visitor. Had I met someone who has occupied one of the houses in Puu-Vallila for years, maybe I had just heard stories about how difficult it is to maintain a comfortable temperature inside the house during the summer and winter extremes, or how annoying are the problems caused by all the insects, without even mentioning anything about that psychological nonsense I just described so passionately in 700 words. But seeing that all of these houses are still inhabited, seeing the gardens filled with so many tables, chairs and flower pots, and seeing how well looked-after all the façades appear, I get the feeling that it really is a place which people are happy to call their home.

Kiasma – American palm print in the heart of Helsinki

I can count on one hand the number of museums that have left a long-lasting and significant impression on me. And it is even simpler with art galleries – there is none. Because, truthfully, the whole concept of walking through numerous spaces stuffed with stained canvases and random piles of scrap defined as ‘sculptures’ feels like something unnatural. Something that degrades each individual work. Nevertheless, it is often worth visiting those exhibition spaces simply because the skin that shelters all the exhibits – the actual building itself – becomes the main art piece which you can still enjoy regardless of how interested you are in its contents.

Most of Steven Holl’s (the American architect behind Kiasma’s design) buildings are very geometric and straightforward, yet always bold and defined by a strong character that never tries to sell the building as a cheap tourist attraction. Although ‘traditional looking‘ could be a phrase used for some of his designs, I have always caught myself carefully examining and feeling somewhat drawn to these buildings whenever I see an image of one. I believe it is because they all have got distinct personalities, which, at the same time, feel approachable and are easy to understand.

Kiasma certainly looks and feels like something that has been completed and opened only yesterday, even though it has stood just south of Töölö Bay since 1998, when it must have appeared ultramodern. The area, which has been slowly unveiling its shape on the map over the last decade, is now developing into a modern cultural and residential neighbourhood with its newest addition (the new Helsinki Central Library) scheduled to be completed in 2018. Since Kiasma was one of the first inhabitants on this site, the strongest connections it has formed are between the art museum and the Töölö Bay as well as the nearby Finlandia Hall, designed by Alvar Aalto. However, its followers seem to have maintained a respectful style pattern and distance, which has helped to establish harmonious relationships between all of the buildings around the bay, also allowing for enough green space and pedestrian routes to be integrated in the new master plan.

Located in the very centre of Helsinki just off Mannerheimintie, Kiasma is daily exposed to hundreds of people who commute by bus, or tram, or simply walk past this building. Because of its distinctly organic shape, the museum certainly stands out from the majority of Holl’s designs, but without losing the main characteristics they all have in common.

Although from the outside Kiasma resembles an enormous mechanical robot/creature from a science fiction film, its internal spaces are calm, filled with light and a sense of divine monumentality. The main atrium is defined by the light which enters the space through the transparent south-facing glass façade and the translucent skylights. But as you soon realise, light is the dominant element throughout the entire building, reviving each space in a unique way with every new sunrise.

The bridges that seem to disappear into walls, leading visitors to the exhibition rooms, add a dynamic feel and visually break down the overall scale of the space. As they connect different floor levels, you get to experience the space from various heights and angles. These numerous viewpoints continuously reveal a new and previously unseen element within the building – a staircase, a door, another window, or a small lookout space from which you can observe one of the busiest intersections of Mannerheimintie.

There is also a number of exits and entrances to each exhibition space. With the dark tinted glass doors obscuring the view behind, it becomes a surprise whether you will end up on one of the bridges, or at the top of a spiral staircase, or right in front of an elevator door. Of course, you can avoid that surprise by actually studying the map with all the floor plans, but that would take the fun away.

I will not elaborate too much on the actual exhibition rooms because most of them, as it usually happens, deliberately divert the attention from themselves by stepping back into the darkness, so that the exhibited works remain in the foreground. However, it is worth remembering that each space has been designed to display particular works with specific requirements. Therefore many unique architectural elements can be found in every single space if you keep looking not just straight ahead but also up and down. Partially hidden skylights to bring in light from a rather peculiar angle and a small balcony to acquire a better angle for observing the large-scale paintings hung at the top of the double-height space are only a few of the examples of what Kiasma has prepared for those who are willing to give their full attention and look for the invisible.

The one exception that probably does deserve a separate mention is the exhibition space on the top floor. The initial responses generated by the atmosphere in this room are not that far off from the ‘wow-effect’ that you get in the central atrium. The massive sloping ceiling, the deep skylights, the polished concrete floor surface reflecting the incoming daylight, and the grey tones set a scene which sort of reminds of a walk across a frozen lake on a cloudy winter’s day.

This room is displaying art works and interactive installations that focus on the delightful topic of the ever-growing consumerism leading the human race towards its end. Therefore the tranquility that radiates from the daylight-filled space itself seems to be working as an invisible safety net for the visitor’s mind to give the hope that maybe the end will not come already tomorrow.

There are undoubtedly different perspectives from which you can look at a building. Especially at a building like this one. I may have ignored and left out certain aspects that someone else would find essential when describing Kiasma. For example, the actual art works inside it. But for me it was not about the art. It was the emotional response to an unfamiliar space that I was after.

Kiasma is definitely one of those places from which no visitor leaves without an opinion or an impression. And, with its ability to appear as if it is growing and changing every day along with the people around it, you will never hear two identical experiences from those who have visited this building.

Kiasma’s website: http://www.kiasma.fi/en/

Alvar Aalto Saga. Chapter 3: The Aalto Studio

Back to Munkkiniemi then.

Only less than a kilometre away from the Aalto House you can find the Aalto Studio, completed in 1955. The main reason for its existence is the fact that the small studio space inside Aalto’s own house became too cramped for the entire staff, which, eventually, comprised nearly 30 people.

I previously described a part of the Munkkiniemi area as somewhat outdated and almost claustrophobically dense, but Tiilimäki, the street where the Aalto Studio is located, feels like from a completely different world. It is full of Modern and Postmodern gems, and just a single walk down Tiilimäki as well as Rantapolku and Munkkiniemenranta (two closest streets) turns into an incredibly comprehensive and informative lecture on the history of private house developments throughout the last 100 years.

Perhaps because this part of Munkkiniemi is situated very close to the sea, the buildings are more scattered and surrounded by large gardens. The tall fences covered in vines and the pine trees touching the window sills with their needles create an illusion that the nature controls this area. In a civilised way, however.

The Aalto Studio…

As it is with all Aalto’s buildings – you know it, when you see one. Externally this studio resembles the Aalto House in some ways. A tall white brick wall in front of the house and a façade that seems to have turned its back to the street. Even the main entrance is from the side of the building – further away from the pavement, which makes the studio appear like an impregnable fortress from some angles. If this sense of isolation seemed a reasonable choice for the family house, then it is not entirely clear to me why a public building of this kind would have to be so protective. As if the crown jewels were hidden somewhere inside it.

Once you have found the correct entrance and managed to get inside, a rather dark foyer opens up in front of you, leading to some of the smaller staff and service rooms that also include the kitchen/dining area. The style and the organisation of this space is inspired by a taverna, expressing Aalto’s fondness of Mediterranean (especially Italian) cultures. A very warm and welcoming atmosphere radiates from the dining room, however, I am not convinced that this space could successfully accommodate 30 people at the same time without someone spilling a coffee or pushing a chair in their colleague’s back.

Apparently Aalto himself had always occupied the place at the far end – in a corner from which you can easily observe the entire fan-shaped space, including its entrance.

When you return from the dining room to the foyer, right in front of you there is a staircase which takes you to the main studio spaces and the meeting room. All of which are located upstairs.

Here it becomes immediately noticeable how bright and spacious the rooms feel compared to the others downstairs. Windows on both sides of the main studio ensure that the space remains filled with natural light throughout the day, while the north-west facing clerestory windows prevent people who work in the room from getting distracted by the garden on the other side of the wall. Upward-facing light fixtures provide additional artificial light during the darker hours of the day by reflecting light from the white sloping ceiling.

Knowing this from my personal experience, no matter how large is the work space given to you, you will always wish for at least one extra square metre. Here, however, I could not help but marvel at the size of the desks and the incredible number of shelves and drawers either placed underneath each of the desks or as separate pieces of furniture to store and to display drawings and material samples. This somehow made it seem impossible that anyone would ever run out of space here, but perhaps a different scene would appear if I visited the studio 50 years earlier during one of its busiest periods.

Adjacent to the studio space is the meeting room where all the clients would have been invited to. The atmosphere inside this room is somehow strange. Small amount of daylight enters the space only from the skylights at one side of the room, falling directly onto the slanted wall below which displays selected projects. The rest of the room remains in shadows and is illuminated by a couple of floor and ceiling lamps.

It feels a bit like sitting in a big closet, and that comparison is not even too far off from reality, considering that the space was also partially used for file storage, with the now empty cardboard tubes taking up an entire wall. Of course, I imagine the reason for avoiding the use of regular windows in this room could be similar to the decision to use clerestory windows in the studio space – no unnecessary distractions. Nevertheless, I believe the Aalto Studio designed projects that would have been perfectly capable of keeping the client’s full attention even in an entirely glazed room in the middle of the Times Square. And the dark meeting room together with the very reserved and austere façade makes me wonder if the clients ever felt like they were visiting mobsters rather than architects.

For me the highlight of the building was the space Aalto had designed for himself to work in. Although, having always strongly believed in Aalto as a humanist and a very rational person in general, it made me raise my eyebrows when I realised that the space in which he mainly worked alone is almost of the same size as the other room where the rest of the staff would have worked. But I cannot deny the fact that I would also happily accept an office like that myself, so who am I to judge.

As the sloping ceiling turns part of the room into a double-height space, it appears deeper and acquires a sense of lightness. The climbing plants, the large thick carpet, and the lingering presence of the afternoon sun establish a very peaceful, almost meditative atmosphere. Therefore, rather than becoming a dreadfully stiff and formal work environment which results in a higher level of stress and anxiety, it remains a pleasant and calming room which makes you enjoy your work and saves a lot of nerves.

Unlike the other studio space, this one has a strong visual link to the garden and for a very practical reason. In case of a well-attended lecture in the amphitheatre-like garden space, the large windows in the studio can be opened and more people are able to participate even from inside the building.

The small balcony in one of the corners of the studio also has a practical purpose – various light fittings (designed by Aalto) are hung from it in order to test their efficiency. Simultaneously this cluster of lamps becomes a peculiar piece of art and makes the space appear more lively and playful.

Last but not least, I must mention the garden/courtyard experience as well. Although I had already examined most part of it through the window whilst exploring Aalto’s personal studio space earlier, a feeling of excitement did not leave my side as I exited the building and turned around the first corner where the path towards the central garden space began. There are quite a few turns to take before you reach the main courtyard, and with each turn the tension builds up – you know that, after all, it is Aalto, thus anything could hide behind the next corner. And that is very true in this case. A small detail on one of the façades, a single element in the garden, a different shade of light – you are being continuously surprised by something.

Seems like a different universe exists on every side of the building, one that is completely independent and unrelated to the others. Even the time appears to move at a different pace in each one. While the courtyard is still enjoying the last days of summer, the south-east façade is already watching the golden leaves abandoning trees.

The overall vibe in the central courtyard is more tense than in some of the spaces inside the building. Being tightly enclosed by the white brick walls from three sides and a thick layer of vegetation from the fourth, it was difficult to shake the feeling of being trapped. The number of windows on two of the façades also emphasise the feeling that your every movement is probably followed by a pair of eyes. Of course, it is important to remember that it has always been a public building and so has the garden, therefore it is unfair to accuse this space of being too exposed. But, nevertheless, no place should make you feel uneasy regardless of its type and function.

As with the Aalto House, there are parts of this building which I admire and others that confuse me. It must have been a very pleasant place to work in, with light and spacious studio spaces and the communal areas (such as the dining room and the amphitheatre in the garden) which would have allowed the entire staff to participate in certain activities together. How much of that atmosphere could have been experienced by a client or any other visitor is not very clear to me. To an outsider the studio can appear a bit unapproachable and secretive, which contradicts everything that Aalto stood for. Nevertheless, it remains a great piece of architecture and certainly a very good example from which to learn what makes a space enjoyable and welcoming and what establishes the opposite feeling.