Libraries. It’s never just about the books.

Although perhaps libraries are in some ways far more valuable than banks and military fortifications, they have always been overlooked by the majority, appeared distant to the majority and simply been physically inaccessible for the majority. That must also be the reason why our perception of libraries is coated in stereotypes topped with a pinch of negativity. People never seem to ‘just go’ to a library – it is a love or hate relationship. Some find libraries more frightening than their dentists and only step inside when the necessity forces them. Others see these buildings as sanctuaries; the gates to a magical world which offers everything the reality denies and therefore willingly retreat among these stacks of books. But libraries have come a long way and the core concept of a public reading space has changed a lot over the past century alone.

Radcliffe Camera, Oxford University Library (1748)

Kaisa House, Helsinki University Library (2012)

At the very beginning of its existence, library was more of an archive than anything else. In many places throughout Africa and Mesopotamia these archives were established in order to organise and ease the government’s work as they contained various legal documents such as laws, receipts, contracts, and agreements.¹ Very often the library was not even a separate building but rather a room or a designated space within a temple or a palace, which implies that these written texts were ‘none of the average person’s business’ since they could only be accessed by the king, the priest, and a limited number of other people.

The only point in history, when a library seems to have been a welcome and reasonably integral part of the society, was during the time of three civilisations – Ancient Egypt, Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece. The Library of Alexandria (Egypt), which was established around 295 BCE and later lost in a mysterious fire, was a predecessor to all modern libraries, containing an exceptionally comprehensive collection of texts and books that was accessible to a much larger part of the society than at any other library at that time or before.² Greeks did not seem to be very keen on establishing large public libraries, however, private home libraries were very common in the Greek Classical period which reflected in the fast-growing level of literacy and the high demand for books (especially poetry and plays).³ It is the very Hellenic culture with their love for literature and the great care with which they collected and organised the books that is said to have inspired the Romans to do the same. In Rome, there was a different problem with libraries – there were too many. A lot of these were publicly available, but because of the buildings being located in various places all over the city and because of the Romans also preferring small home libraries, the collections provided by these libraries seemed almost limited compared to the Library of Alexandria.⁴

However, one thing nearly all ancient libraries had in common was the purpose behind their construction which had little to do with the king’s or emperor’s wish to make literature more accessible to people. It was simply the need to express one’s power over the rivaling empires and cities. The very design of the library buildings in the ancient world was based on the same principles as temples. There would be colonnades, complex staircases, paintings, sculptural depictions of Gods, and everything else that would emphasise the amount of knowledge owned by the library’s commissioner.⁵ Essentially, library still remained an archive – a divine archive which was not meant to be disturbed for too long by the presence of the little insignificant human being.

The scale of the ruins of the Roman Forum gives a small idea of how large were all the public buildings, including libraries, in the Ancient Rome

What happened after the disintegration of these ancient empires and civilisations, we all know – the world pretty much went downhill until the Age of Enlightenment. Of course, libraries never ceased to exist at any point in time. They retained their importance and main functions, and grew along with the developments of printing techniques which suddenly allowed making new copies of books much easier and quicker. Although many types of libraries existed in the Medieval Ages, for a long period of time the church and monastic libraries were the dominant ones, meaning that, once again, there was a limited part of the society which had access to certain books and collections.⁶ Despite that, by the 17^th century the number of public libraries around the world had significantly increased, but library was still only the house of and for books.

At the beginning of the 20^th century the idea of a library as a social institution was finally born and the temple of books seemed to regain its popularity and appeal. Nevertheless, after centuries of existing as a plain and dark storage space for books which is mainly concerned with expressing a certain political or religious message rather than looking after the wellbeing of its day-to-day users, the organisation of the library had to be changed. Particularly worrying was the fact that even a term Library Anxiety was introduced and quickly accepted by many.⁷

Here I could insert 5 more paragraphs about the library development throughout the 20^th century, but that is not why I intended to write this blog post. I simply want to know what does the word library stand for today and what notions are behind the designs of these buildings.

With the establishment of architectural movements such as Rationalism, Functionalism and Modernism suddenly the focus shifted from ”what are we going to design?” to ”who will be using this building and what do they need?”. That question is particularly important to ask if a public building with a function to that of a library is planned to be built. The temple-like structures, sky-high vaulted ceiling, massive colonnades and dimly lit rooms are acceptable if the library was meant to remain primarily an archive. But on the inside these elements together create such a hostile environment that no living being would willingly spend their days in there. In the Ancient Rome many libraries would have gardens attached to the main building because it was expected for a person to pick up a book from the library and read it outside or recite the text to a larger crowd.⁸ The laws and the social norms of the 21^st century would probably stop most from standing on the library doorstep and shouting their just learned Shakespeare poems to the passersby, but the idea that a reading space should be directly connected to the outdoors (instead of resembling a secluded dungeon) or at least imitate some motifs found in the nature has survived and become widely popular. Probably for psychological reasons which there is even no need to explain for any sensible person.

Turku Library by JKMM Architects (2007)

Turku Library by JKMM Architects (2007)

Library is no longer an ”in between space”, or a pick up point for books, or even more depressing – a dedication to a god or a deceased king. It is designed to become a second home, to become a place a person relies on, feels safe in and knows that they can always return to. The most important fact about contemporary libraries is that they are accessible to absolutely everyone, emphasising that it does not matter who you are or where you come from – you still have the right to acquire the same kind of knowledge the most respected doctors and scientists have. The welcoming atmosphere in the libraries encourage people to use these spaces for work in the most informal and peaceful environment.

Rovaniemi Library by Alvar Aalto

Turku Library by JKMM Architects

The desire (or the need?) to show off power and wealth through architecture remains just as important today as it was in the ancient world, however, most libraries seem to have successfully avoided the burden of functioning just as shiny but empty shells. Nowadays behind library designs there are often deep and personal stories of an entire nation. These buildings can be inspired by vernacular architecture, local landscapes and materials, or even folklore. One of such examples is the new National Library of Latvia which was inspired by the concept of the castle of the light – a metaphorical expression, used in a poem (1875), which today could symbolise the rebirth of the knowledge and the intelligence that has risen since the country gained back its independence.

Looking back on the entire history of libraries, it seems at first that these buildings have evolved in a linear way. I see it more as a circle which has now been twice completed and is about to (maybe in a century) enter the third round. There is no doubt that literature’s highest point in history was the time the Ancient Greece, Egypt and Rome flourished, but after many centuries we seem to have reached more or less the same position again, if not already passed by it. The reason why I see a new regression is the age of digitalisation. It is scary to realise how many people have already given up hard copies of books and are now walking around with only their Kindles. It is not really a question of whether the libraries will exist in the future because it is clearly visible that they are now transforming and adapting to the modern age which is being warmly welcomed and accepted by people. The question is – what is going to be that new type of building once the transition is complete?

1. ”The Beginnings,” History of Libraries, accessed February 27, 2016, http://eduscapes.com/history/beginnings/index.htm

2. Bivens-Tatum, Wayne. Libraries and the Enlightenment. Los Angeles: Library Juice Press, 2012.

3. ”Ancient Libraries: 300s BCE,” History of Libraries, accessed February 27, 2016, http://eduscapes.com/history/ancient/300bce.htm

4. Bivens-Tatum, Wayne. Libraries and the Enlightenment.

5. ”A Brief History of Roman Libraries,” The Illustrated History of the Roman Empire, accessed February 27, 2016, http://www.roman-empire.net/articles/article-005.html

6. ”The Medieval Library”, History Readings, accessed February 27, 2016, http://www.historyreadings.com/uk/med_lib/index.html

7. ”Library Anxiety: A Grounded Theory and Its Development,” College and Research Libraries, accessed February 27, 2016, http://crl.acrl.org/content/47/2/160.full.pdf+html

8. ”A Brief History of Roman Libraries”.

Puu-Käpylä. Then and now.

A few months ago I wrote about Puu-Vallila, a small and idyllic 1900s’ wooden district located in the northern part of Helsinki. As I was learning more about its history, the name of Vallila’s younger sister Puu-Käpylä came up, and as soon as the term garden city appeared, I was determined to visit this place right away. These two districts share nearly the same history, the same purpose, the same architectural styles, and many more aspects. However, they both have entirely different and unique identities; something very specific about each one of them that is difficult to describe, but can be immediately felt once you arrive there.

Puu-Käpylä, like Puu-Vallila, was born out of the pressing necessity for new housing that would provide the working-class families with a higher standard of living conditions at the beginning of the 20^th century. Located even further out of the city centre than Vallila, the construction of Puu-Käpylä began in 1920 under the supervision of the project’s main architects Akseli Toivonen and Martti Välikangas.¹ Five years later the number of buildings in this neighbourhood had already reached 168. Although the presence of nature in Finnish culture has always played a significant role, the concept of a private garden used for growing food (particularly in such urban environment) was something rather new.

During the 1950s and 1960s when various new Finnish suburbs emerged along with new large housing projects and master plans, the area was facing serious demolition threats. These wooden houses could no longer compete with the new level of comfort and sanitation that the modern suburbs provided (the dwellings in Käpylä, for example, had outdoor toilets), and many of them had already been badly damaged or destroyed in the Second World War.² In 1960 Ahti Korhonen and Erik Kråkström won the architectural competition organised by the city’s officials. They proposed a new plan for the area which suggested replacing the old wooden buildings with new two-storey stone houses, changing the overall street layout, and turning some of the green areas into parking spaces.³ Even though Käpylä would still remain a Green Suburb (emphasis on green), the sense of community that had grown very strong over the previous decades would have been completely destroyed. For many years an ongoing debate continued between those who supported and those who were against the new plans. Finally, in 1971 an official report, made by a special committee who had investigated the actual conditions of the houses as well as the economical differences between the area’s redevelopment and renovation, declared that the restoration is possible and the buildings are of a historical importance, therefore Puu-Käpylä acquired the status of a conservation area.⁴ The most significant renovation works took place until 1977, lead by architect Bengt Lundsten.⁵

 

The wooden houses in Puu-Käpylä also belong to Nordic Classicism, but compared to the buildings in Puu-Vallila these dwellings appear a lot simpler and more modest. Instead of having the sophisticated and playful gambrel roofs which are very common in the Vallila district, here the houses are often finished with plain gable or hip roofs, while the weatherboarding is covered in darker and earthier tones. These buildings are said to resemble the traditional rural life in Finland, which is quite unlike some of the other examples of Nordic Classicism that try to stand out and impress with their boldness.⁶

One element that does stand out, however, is the ornaments above and below the window surrounds. These decors help to identify and distinguish the houses, as well as making you admire the craftsmanship of their makers.

Puu-Käpylä feels a lot more spacious than Puu-Vallila, which, of course, is a result of the amount of green space that surrounds the houses. The buildings are aligned in a very straightforward rectangular grid, but the trees and the greenery seem to ignore these boundaries and rebel against the bold geometry, which is probably a lot more noticeable in the summer. Also, the terrain in Vallila, although being far from flat and boring, feels somewhat more tamed than here. From certain hill tops it is possible to overlook nearly the entire neighbourhood, while the bottom of that hill protects a small and fragile fruit tree from the North wind. It is almost as if the wilderness had managed to survive and resist the urbanisation and is now holding onto every little piece of land where the human has not yet placed a concrete foundation.

It may be that many people would have benefited more if Puu-Käpylä was redeveloped in the 1960s. It may be that the area would have had a completely different importance today. It is very easy to look at a photo of an old building, say that it probably has no use anymore and quickly think of a more profitable way to exploit the site. But it takes a lot of effort to see past that weather-beaten surface and willingness to find the ways in which it is still superior to some of the contemporary buildings rather than emphasising what it lacks. When I look at these pictures now, I, too, see only old wooden houses. But I have been there. I have stood next to them and I clearly remember that intangible uniqueness this area possesses like no other place in Helsinki. And that is the only way to understand the meaning of such places. You have to get familiar with them.

1. Clark, Peter, ed. The European City and Green Space: London, Stockholm, Helsinki and St. Petersburg, 1850-2000. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2006.

2. ”Puu-Käpylän kaavoituskiista – Kulttuuriympäristöön kohdistuvien asenteiden muuttumisesta 1960-luvulla.” Rakennusperinto.fi. Accessed February 14, 2016. http://www.rakennusperinto.fi/kulttuuriymparisto/artikkelit/fi_FI/Puu_Kapylan_kaavoituskiista/

3. Clark, The European City and Green Space: London, Stockholm, Helsinki and St. Petersburg, 1850-2000.

4. Rakennusperinto.fi. ”Puu-Käpylän kaavoituskiista – Kulttuuriympäristöön kohdistuvien asenteiden muuttumisesta 1960-luvulla.”

5. ”Käpylän puutaloalueet ja Käärmetalo.” Museovirasto. Accessed February 14, 2016. http://www.rky.fi/read/asp/r_kohde_det.aspx?KOHDE_ID=1566

6. Quantrill, Malcom. Finnish Architecture and the Modernist Tradition. London: Taylor & Francis, 1995.

The story of Turku

Meet Turku – the oldest city in Finland which has been officially existing on the map since the 13^th century; has played the role of Finland’s capital until the Russian invasion in the 19^th century, when these duties were taken over by Helsinki; and has always been and still remains a significant link between Finland and the Western Europe.¹ I got to visit this living and breathing history book during the most peaceful time of the year when the river Aurajoki (or Aura in English), which splits Turku in half, was asleep under a thick layer of ice, while the surrounding forests and hills were covered in white snow blankets.

Although almost two thirds of the city were turned into ashes after the Great Fire of Turku in 1827, some of the historic structures remained intact or at least survived partially. Like the Turku Castle, which has experienced destruction, burning and bombing at different times during its lifetime.

As a result of these past disasters that have torn the city apart many times, today the central part of Turku mainly consists of developments which have been built during the last two centuries. Due to the great demand for new housing and the need to quickly improve the traffic infrastructure in the middle of the 20^th century, the streets are mainly dominated by rather common and standardised functionalist and modernist buildings that have taken the place of the previous wooden houses. These residential and commercial blocks are often so indistinguishable that you can very quickly get lost among them if you are not paying attention to the street name signs. The promenade along the River Aura has gradually turned into a phenomenal chronological timeline which physically demonstrates the development of Turku’s built environment throughout the centuries. Here examples of National Romanticism, Classicism, Functionalism, Modernism, and Post-Modernism are placed side by side, creating a very diverse cityscape.

I would be lying if I pretended I had no clue about the link that exists between Turku and Alvar Aalto. Between 1927 and 1933 Aalto lived and worked in Turku before moving to Helsinki since it provided more work opportunities.² As the testimony to his time in Turku, three Aalto’s buildings can be found in the city: Standard Apartment Building (1927-28), Southwest Finland Agricultural Co-operative Building (1927-28), Turun Sanomat newspaper office (1928-29).

These buildings are examples of Aalto’s early style – the very rational, straightforward functionalist who seems to have kept a certain distance between himself and his designs. Today all of these houses are still in use and appear to have blended in with their neighbours so well that it would be easy to miss them if it were not for certain details and signs.

One of the things I enjoyed most about Turku was that among those monotone and repetitive blocks here and there a sudden breathtaking or intriguing surprise would appear out of nowhere. The impressive National Romantic style building (1904) designed by Gustaf Nyström is one of such examples. This astounding structure, which is also a home to Turku Art Museum, in the darkness probably looks like something just stepped out of a Gothic horror film. Located on the top of a hill, it overlooks the street that disappears in front below, making the building appear even more grand and respectable.

However, it is not just the historical aspect of Turku that is interesting. As much as the city emphasises and cares for its history, it has also got a forward-looking and innovative side to it, which already has attracted a lot of attention. One of the noteworthy projects is the famous (I say famous because it kept reappearing in so many of my researches for various university projects throughout the entire course) Pudelma pavilion in the park next to the Turku City Hall.

Designed in 2011 by students and professionals from the University of Columbia, Oulu University and Aalto University, the pavilion was dedicated to Turku’s nomination as the ”European Capital of Culture 2011” and the events hosted as a part of the cultural programme.³ This experimental structure combines traditional timber construction techniques and modern computer-based design methods. It is not just an eye-pleasing object, dropped in the middle of a courtyard – the atmosphere inside it is also quite unique, especially with the snow filling in the voids and creating a feeling that you have just entered a weird igloo hybrid. The fact that this (I presume initially – ‘temporary’) pavilion is still standing 5 years after its construction shows how open-minded the city is and also how much it appreciates non-traditional design.

The other major project is the new building of Turku Main Library, completed in 2007 by JKMM Architects. The building has received numerous awards, all of which are well-deserved. The project must have been a difficult challenge not just because of its central location and dense urban surroundings, but also because the structure had to be linked to the old library building, which had been completed in 1903.

The new library makes a rather modest first impression, compared to some of the other recently finished libraries in the same region as well as in more distant places. But it fits. It fits so well that if the building was placed right next to Aalto’s Southwest Finland Agricultural Co-operative Building, which is only a few blocks away, you would think that half a century later the same architect has been reborn and designed the second building next to his first work. By that I am not trying to say that the new library is a copy of some of its older neighbours, but it definitely feels like a natural continuation of its surrounding environment. And there is absolutely no need for the new library to scream for the attention – people seem to be visiting it very frequently and willingly. Because once you will have experienced the warm and inviting atmosphere of the reading rooms inside this building, you will find your legs bringing you back there already the next day.

And that is a brief overview of Turku. There is certainly a lot to cover when you are trying to capture the essence of an entire city, but I hope this will do. I imagine Turku is one of those places you have to visit at least once in every season to fully understand how everything comes together and functions as a whole. The city’s growth seems to gradually continue and not just above the ground. The Medieval Turku is also rising back from the underground (literally) as the archaeological excavations take place underneath the Aboa Vetus & Ars Nova – the museum of history and contemporary art. You can always trust in people and places that are proud of their ancestry and maintain a strong connection with their history because you know that they are real, that they are in touch with themselves and the place from which they originate. And if you have a strong connection to the past, you also have a better chance of creating a meaningful future. That, I believe, is also the case of Turku.

1.”History of Turku,” Nordtek, accessed February 7, 2016, http://web.abo.fi/konferens/nordtek2011/history.html

2. Lahti, Louna. Aalto. Köln: Taschen, 2004.

3. ”Pudelma in the Turku City Hall park,” Turku 2011, accessed February 7, 2016, http://www.turku2011.fi/en/news/pudelma-turku-city-hall-park_en

F*ck the authority. Ai WeiWei @ Helsinki.

From 25.09.2015 to 28.02.2016 HAM (also known as the Helsinki Art Museum) is exhibiting the works of Chinese artist Ai WeiWei. Although my initial reason for wanting to visit this museum was the curiosity about the actual building itself, the artworks displayed inside it were the ones that completely overwhelmed and consumed me.

HAM has found its home at the Tennispalatsi (1938) – a very fine example of Functionalism in central Helsinki, designed by Helge Lundström for the 1940 Summer Olympics which never took place because of the World War II. After its construction, the ‘Tennis Palace’ was never really used for sporting events, with the only exception being the basketball games during the 1952 Summer Olympics.¹ Instead, the building has always appeared to be more suitable for hosting business and cultural events, therefore it comes as no surprise that today Tennispalatsi is known as the cultural centre which accommodates a cinema complex and an art museum. It did sadden me a little to see that the interior has entirely lost the connection with the exterior. The 21^st century’s obsession with ‘automatic everything’ and the use of cold soulless materials has irreversibly torn apart the building’s insides like a lethal disease. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the building never found its true calling in the first place, thus there was no identity to preserve. So if you are looking for a lesson in the history of Functionalism, this will not be the right place. But if you are after some controversial and thought-provoking contemporary art, do go in.

Born in 1957, Beijing, by now Ai WeiWei seems to have attempted almost every possible form of artistic expression – animation, installation art, architecture, photography, music, film, writing. The range of works featured in this exhibition includes various projects from the past three decades. Some of these artworks are WeiWei’s response to global issues while others retain deeply personal meanings, representing certain events and experiences from the artist’s life.

Ai WeiWei has always been very passionate about human rights and the freedom of speech, emphasising the absolute necessity for the truth to always remain exposed regardless of the cost. His other passion for criticising the authority has caused WeiWei some trouble and numerous collisions with the Chinese government. From being banned from travelling abroad as a potential threat to national security, to being held in detention and accused of various crimes for which, of course, no solid evidence could ever be found.² So far none of these events have succeeded in silencing the artist’s voice. WeiWei remains determined to rebel against those who would like to see the world full of scared obedient slaves, which is clearly visible in his artwork.

The wooden handcuffs and hanger symbolise WeiWei’s time spent in detention.

There is only one element that makes a noticeable connection between all of these unique artworks – wood. The use of this organic material somehow softens the feeling in the room where almost every installation can be seen as a metaphorical fist thrusted in the faces of those holding the power. The choice of wood also shows WeiWei’s respect and worry for the traditional Chinese culture and its future which, in my opinion, is best expressed in the White House installation.

The pale ghost-like skeleton has been assembled using the main structural elements of a residential building dating from the Qing dinasty. By covering the structure in white paint and concealing the imperfections of the old timber beams, WeiWei brings attention to the easiness and carelessness with which things with historical importance and value are torn down, taken apart, transformed, and eventually sold as new. It is the first time this installation has been exhibited anywhere, and it seemed quite fitting that the White House has its debut in the Tennispalatsi – the building which ironically has had the same fate as this little Chinese house.

One of the most popular installations (judging by how many people stopped to take a photo of it or sat down to explore it for a while) seemed to be the Tree. Made of various parts from different dead tree trunks found across the South China, it bears a somewhat strong resemblance to the ‘creature‘ from Marry Shelley’s Frankenstein.

You look at it knowing that each of its individual components is dead, and yet, when put together, they manage to form an object which on outside appears to be perfectly fine and functioning – perhaps another reference to the current state of many governments and countries around the world. It made me wonder why this particular installation seemed so appealing; why did everyone, including me, felt so drawn to it. Is it because we all relate to the ”being broken/pretending to be fine” state? Is it because we always automatically start to look for a solution or a fix as soon as something is out of order? Or is it simply because our straightforward thinking minds always get suspicious when we see something that does not look ‘normal’ or ‘natural’?

Those are only a few of the questions I had in my mind as I left the building. Ai WeiWei’s work most certainly makes you think. It draws your attention to what is really important, makes you laugh about the established system, and provokes feelings and thoughts that certain people wish would never cross your mind.

Helsinki Art Museum: http://www.hamhelsinki.fi/en/
Ai Wei Wei: http://aiweiwei.com/

1. ”Tennispalatsi,” Helsinki Hotels, accessed February 2, 2016, http://www.helsinki-hotels.com/museums/tennispalatsi.htm

2. BBC News, ”China Nobel row: Artist Ai Weiwei stopped from leaving,” BBC.com, accessed February 2, 2016, http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-pacific-11909470

Lux Helsinki 2016

Every year as winter approaches and days become shorter, Europe is taken over by numerous light festivals. These events provide great opportunities for designers to create daring and unique installations, while for the visitors those become unforgettable experiences. You would probably expect that in a place like Finland, where in the southern part alone daylight is sometimes present for no more than 4 or 5 hours during the winter, people are equipped with the ability to hibernate and the streets remain empty for a few months. But this assumption could not be any further from the truth. During Lux Helsinki, the light festival which this year took place from 6th to 10th January in the heart of Finland’s capital, the streets were crowded even despite the freezing temperatures. The festival gathered people of all ages and the city was lit up not just by the few extra light bulbs, but also by the many happy faces wandering through its arteries.

Here is a brief coverage of some of my favourite installations from Lux Helsinki 2016.

5. Lantern Park.

The clue is in the title. Located in the Old Church Park which is also the home to the oldest church in Helsinki, hundreds of unique lanterns completely transformed the otherwise grim graveyard. The names of large design firms as well as art and design students could be found among the authors. Beautiful, different, provocative, funny. Each of these artworks certainly told a unique story, but, most importantly, they allowed the observer to interpret them and make a very individual decision about the actual meaning behind every lantern.

4. CLOUD.

Designed by Caitlind r.c. Brown and Wayne Garrett this interactive installation, which had previously already taken part in various festivals around the world, this time had found its place in the middle of a street and made a very convincing impression of what life would be like if clouds were tangible and existed among us here down on the ground. The never-decreasing crowd around it, made it very clear that the CLOUD was certainly one of the festival’s favourites. Delicate chains hanging down from the main structure allowed every participant to feel like a divine creature who has the power to illuminate or darken parts of a cloud by simply pulling a string. For me the most appealing aspect of this design was the fact that every detail and connection was left exposed, adding even more charm to this installation.

3. Ilon kuvia. / Images of Joy.

Images of various artworks projected onto the façade of the Helsinki Cathedral turned one of the city’s most iconic buildings into a three-dimensional canvas, gathering hundreds of people in the Senate Square every evening during the festival. The sheer idea of covering (even if temporarily) a sacral building with graffiti-like designs sounds outrageous and provocative, and therefore makes it so much more exciting and brilliant. Certainly no one really seemed to object to this sacrifice and why would they! It is hard to tell what felt more fascinating – the gigantic artwork being displayed in such a unique way or the feeling of everyone in the crowd being joined in amazement.

2. He olivat täällä. / They were here.

This installation by graphic artist Alexander Reichstein made walking down the Sofiankatu impossible as nearly every passer-by stopped to take a photo of one of the hauntingly beautiful light sculptures. Human figures made of metal wires, sprayed with fluorescent paint and placed along the street were dedicated to this area’s former residents who now remain alive only in the whispers, the shadows and the memories of their successors. Reichstein had undoubtedly managed to capture the bodiless and the evanescent, dressing it in a physical shape. The entire street seemed to be suddenly filled with ghosts frozen in space and time.

1. Medicine city.

The authors of this already previously exhibited installation are Antti Pussinen and Martta-Kaisa Virta. Made of more than 20 000 empty aluminium medicine packages, this miniature city represents the modern society’s dependence on medication seeing it as the only solution in dealing with physical, emotional, and virtually any kind of pain. The installation which reflects how alone and broken people can be in the time when overpopulation is a frequently encountered problem, is somewhat tragic and heart-breaking. But at the same time it shows that wonderful things are still born from this state of chaos and being broken (like the installation itself). This is certainly one of those artworks you can observe for hours and realise that new emotions still keep constantly arising within you.

Lux Helsinki full programme:

http://www.luxhelsinki.fi/en

Alvar Aalto Saga. Chapter 4: Finlandia Hall

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.

The old soul of Porvoo

If you want to experience the ultimate Christmas atmosphere in Finland, you can certainly go to Lapland and meet Santa Claus, but it is not necessary to travel that far up north to find the festive spirit. Porvoo, which is a city located only about 50 km east of Helsinki, has got not only that but also a long and fascinating history that is very much alive and present in its streets today.

The story of Porvoo began in the 13th century; however, only a century later it got the official status of a city.¹ Its location and city plan makes it a very typical Medieval city – established next to a river and in a close proximity to the open sea, Porvoo became a transit point through which various goods would travel from Finland to the Central Europe and vice versa.² The cityscape is dominated by the Porvoo Church, which also dates from the 13th century and, like many other Medieval churches, is built on a hill. Since Porvoo is a billingual city with almost half of its population being native Swedish speakers, many events and messes in the Porvoo Church (or Porvoo Cathedral since 1723) are held in Swedish, while another smaller church right next to it is mainly used by the Finnish speaking locals.³

Porvoo is perhaps best recognised by the dark red wooden dwellings built along the riverside. Nevertheless, the wooden architecture that can be found further inside the city is no less exceptional. Most of these buildings have a similar rectangular shape and size, but still there are no two identical houses in this town. The dwellings are easy to tell apart mainly because of their bright colours which rarely repeat twice in the exact same shade. Not only is this a practical solution, but it also creates a lot more positive and uplifting atmosphere which is essential in a place where for many months the daylight is present for nearly just 6 hours a day.

In many ways Porvoo resembles a small-scale version of Gamla Stan – the Old Town in Stockholm, which is not that surprising since the city was established during the time when Finland was a part of the Kingdom of Sweden and the influence of Swedish culture in this area remained very noticeable throughout the following centuries.

Gamla Stan (Stockholm, Sweden)

Porvoo (Finland)

The wooden houses in Porvoo are a lot more ornamented compared to, for example, some of the wooden districts in Helsinki or the little towns across Lapland. Sophisticated lantern designs, ornamental shop signs, delicate door decors – small details like that which give a very unique and distinguishable character to every building, are visible everywhere. Although it can be easy to go over the top with such decorations, in this case they sort of emphasise the human scale which without a doubt dominates the place and which, again, is essential in this rather harsh environment for it contrasts with the roughness and wilderness and makes you feel more welcome.

Another essential element of any Medieval city is the main square, which is also present in Porvoo. Today most of the buildings around this square accommodate museums and small shops which offer stunning hand-made designs. Among these buildings is also the old Town Hall which, being one of the only two remaining 18th-century town halls in Finland, is very unique.⁴ The square itself is quite large for a small old town like this. While it gives you a sense of enclosure, it does not make you feel disoriented or trapped (as some urban places like this tend to do) because of the nature of the surrounding landscape and the low wooden buildings which allow you to see the hills and other settlements in the distance.

Needless to say, Porvoo is much more than just the old town, although that is perhaps the most exciting part of the city. The newer part of Porvoo appears a lot more similar to Helsinki, with the buildings being bold, monumental, and finished using much more neutral colours. It is the zone which connects the old and the new part of the town that is particularly interesting. Buildings that represent Functionalism and Classicism are bordering the old wooden Porvoo. Even though they are a lot heavier and more formal in their appearance, they respect their older neighbours and continue some of the already established stylistic patterns, becoming an integrated part of the colourful cityscape. Even the industrial red brick factories, located next to the river, seem to fit very well in this historical environment because, just like the wooden buildings, they fully embrace the bold colours and emphasise their materiality with the exposed surfaces. This area somehow reduces the contrast between the old and the new Porvoo, making the transition less noticeable while strengthening the sense of unity between all these parts.

Porvoo is most definitely a great place to visit any time of the year. It is not only the historical structures that are worth the attention but also some of the very recent projects as well as the currently ongoing developments on the west side of the river. The already completed residential building complex by Tuomas Siitonen right next to the river proves that the new Porvoo is not interested in becoming the exhibition space for shiny postmodernist experiments. Instead, it has chosen to establish a rational and functional (but still contemporary!) environment that responds to the buildings on the opposite side of the river and continues the same traditions.

1.”History of Porvoo,” Aija Sorvali, accessed 30 November 2015. http://www.porvoo.fi/en/history

2. ”History of Porvoo”.

3. ”Porvoo Cathedral and the Small Church,” Muuka, accessed 30 November 2015. http://www.muuka.com/finnishpumpkin/churches/p/cepop/church_cepop.html

4. ”History of the Buildings Housing the Museums,” Porvoo Museum, accessed 30 November 2015. http://www.porvoonmuseo.fi/oldMuseum.php?lang=ENGLISH

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/