Finlandia Hall will always remain very special to me. It was the very first Alvar Aalto’s building I studied and analysed very extensively for a university assignment. Assignment which brought me into the world of Finnish Modernism, from which there is now no return for me. Finlandia Hall was also the first ever Aalto’s building I physically saw, and I will certainly never forget the sight of those snow white volumes rising tall against the grey sky, with the dark waters of the Töölö Bay at their feet.
Only now, 4 years later, I finally got the opportunity to also explore the inside of this building myself. Had I done it earlier, perhaps my perception and opinion of Aalto and his works would have developed completely differently as this turned out to be a side of Aalto I do not think I have often (if ever) seen before.
It has always amazed me how organically and flawlessly this building fits into its surroundings. The south-west façade, which faces the busy Mannerheimintie street, is hidden behind a large mound and a thick line of trees that shelter it from all the hustle near the road. This curved and generously glazed façade appears light and playful as if trying to break down the overall level of seriousness and formality this building possesses. After all, being the host of the international Conference on Security and Co-operation in Europe in 1975 which brought together many political leaders from all over the world, it is said that one of the most essential tasks for Finlandia Hall was to clearly manifest the country’s neutral standpoint during the Cold War era and later throughout the irreversible dissolution of the Eastern Bloc.1
As if that was not already enough to expect from one building, the opposite façade reveals the actual size of this design which suggests the grand scale of the entire master plan that Aalto had in mind. Finlandia Hall was originally designed as a part of the extensive Helsinki city centre plan (developed by Aalto in 1960s) which was needed to improve the transport infrastructure, develop some of the central districts including the Töölönlahti, Pasila and Kamppi areas, and to create a new cultural centre along the Töölö bay.2 The plan never even came close to being fully realised, and of all the initially proposed cultural buildings, Finlandia Hall ended up being the only one built. Therefore today it acquires an even more important role as one of the few physical manifestations of Aalto’s vision for the future of Helsinki.
The Töölö-Bay-facing façade, which attracts most of the attention being the only completely exposed side of this building, truly reflects the nature and the atmosphere of Finlandia Hall. Designed as the building’s main façade, it embodies a sense of firmness, confidence, and certain order, ignoring the Modernist beloved tradition to mass-produce plain, big boxes. Looking from the opposite side of the bay Finlandia Hall merges with its surroundings and visually somewhat resembles an imitation of the nearby-found bare rock hills with their countless bold facets.
Once you have seen its interior, you realise that the building is in many ways transparent and straightforward. Its exterior actually contains many hints of what can be found inside, and you end up with exactly what you have suspected. Unless you are me. As I mentioned at the beginning, I initially learned about Aalto and his design principles through some of his other works which quickly formed my now very strong opinion of him. The architect whose designed spaces make you feel as if your entire living room has been transformed into a forest; whose ability to understand that invisible bond between people and nature makes the terms inside and outside lose their meanings; and whose buildings make you feel at home regardless of their function. Finlandia Hall attempts to achieve all of those three things, but the outcome is not very convincing.
The first thing that immediately stands out upon entering the building is how open and spacious it is. Rather than being isolated from one another by opaque walls the main spaces establish a continuous flow, with the occasional partition wall or column suggesting the otherwise nonexistent boundaries and directing all views towards particular points. Aalto’s exceptional attention to detail and tendency to put the emphasis on human scale are also noticeable straight away. Door handles, handrails, floor lamps, seating areas in the hallways – the building is dominated by these delicate elements which make the person feel appreciated and in control of the environment.
Interestingly, the largest spaces feel the most pleasant and intimate. The foyer outside the main auditorium has been designed as an indoor piazza, trying to retain a strong connection with the outdoors. Relatively divided into various active and passive zones, it allows a large number of people to freely move through this space while others can gather in small groups nearby. The balcony, which overlooks the foyer, makes it possible for the people located on the upper level to participate (at least to an extent) in everything that happens below.
The main auditorium, which I had the highest expectations of, turned out to be the one space that truly exceeded my every hope. Perhaps it is the combination of the white, light brown and soothing dark blue wood panels which imitate the nearby landscape – white Finnish birches against the night sky, or perhaps it is the fan-shaped space which, immediately after entering it, draws your attention towards the stage – the narrowest part of the room, thus distracting from the actual size of the auditorium.3 Either way this space with the seating capacity of 1700 achieves the almost impossible and creates the illusion that you are suddenly inside van Gogh’s Starry Night painting.
Although all of the above mentioned elements are very much Aalto’s trademarks and also the things that usually make his designed spaces feel so inviting and relaxing, this time they are heavily overwhelmed by one single element – Carrara marble. The extensive use of this material for both the exterior and interior of Finlandia Hall has probably caused the biggest arguments and discussions ever since the building was completed. Being the manifestation of Aalto’s life-long appreciation for the Mediterranean and Italian cultures (Carrara marble originates in Italy), this light grey material certainly increases the building’s resemblance to the Ancient Roman temples and encompasses the feel of stability and timelessness. However, the marble seems to be unsuitable for this region not just because of the negative physical impact the local climate leaves on it, but also because of the psychological effects it can have on the observer and user (even though I only speak for myself here). For the entire time I spent inside Finlandia Hall, the feeling of cold did not leave me. And this time it had nothing to do with the fact that it was -15ºC outside – the coldness seemed to radiate directly from the internal marble panels. Instead of encouraging the visitor to engage more with the building, the marble is almost alarming and makes you want to distance yourself from it, which completely destroys all the other Aalto’s attempts at creating another remarkable imitation of ‘indoor nature’. The formal tone is, of course, understandable for a public building with such functions and intentions, but if it indeed was meant to represent an entire nation, or at least its standpoint, at a certain time in the past, I can safely say that the cold and impersonal Carrara marble does not do any justice and would only establish a terribly misleading stereotype about the society where warmth and compassion are the two core elements.
There are a lot of things and aspects to talk about when it comes to Finlandia Hall, considering how massive and complex it is. The building was constructed over the period of 8 years, being one of Aalto’s last works. The fact that parts of Finlandia Hall have been designed or later added by another architect is also noticeable when walking through the building as it is difficult to find a definite connecting link between all the wings. But despite the occasional moments where it feels that each one of them is telling a different story, the main notion remains clear.
Even though Aalto never would have had the chance (or the permission) to finish his plan for the Helsinki city centre in its entirety, it is clear that at least some of his proposals have been taken in consideration and are slowly acquiring a physical form. The Töölönlahti area, which not so long ago was an undeveloped site, is now, indeed, becoming a prominent cultural centre. From the list of the buildings Aalto had envisioned for this location, three have already found their way here (Finnish National Opera (1993), Kiasma (1998), Helsinki Music Centre (2011)) and one more is currently under construction (Helsinki Central Library (2017)). It is a little worrying to see how a large area like this slowly comes together, throwing in pieces from different directions and not following a concise master plan. There is always a risk of turning into a landmark-filled neighbourhood with no particular structure. But seeing that clearly in this case culture has attracted more culture into the same area for over decades, at least there is a hope that the Töölönlahti neighbourhood will develop into a place with a matter and meaning.
1. Pelkonen, Eeva – Liisa. Alvar Aalto: Architecture, Modernity, and Geopolitics. London: Yale University Press, 2009.
2. Mia Hipeli, ”Plans for Helsinki City Center by Alvar Aalto” (paper presented at the international conference on the research of modern architecture UNIVERSAL versus INDIVIDUAL, Jyväskylä, Finland, 30 August – 1 September, 2002).
3. Quantrill, Malcom. Alvar Aalto: A Critical Study. London: Secker & Warburg, 1983.
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