Peter Zumthor, Atmospheres
Book excerpt from Atmospheres by architect Peter Zumthor to explain architectural environments and surrounding objects.
A good place to live and discreet protection. The concept to describe it is 'atmosphere'. Atmosphere speaks to an emotional sensibility, a perception that works at incredible speed and that we human beings possess in order to survive. There is something inside us that immediately tells us a great deal; an immediate understanding, an immediate contact, an immediate rejection.
Carrying out this task of creating architectural atmospheres also has a craft dimension. In my work, there must be a procedure, interests, instruments, and tools. I observe myself now and tell you in nine mini-chapters what I have found along the way, what leads me in a direction when I try to generate that atmosphere in my works. These answers are deeply personal; I have no others. They are highly sensitive and individual; in fact, they are probably the product of personal sensibilities of my own that lead me to do things in a certain way.
The body of architecture.1
The material presence of the things that belong to a work of architecture, of its structure. In them I find the first and greatest secret of architecture: bringing together things and materials of the world so that, united, they create this space. Like our body, with its anatomy and other things that are not seen, a skin, etc., this is how I understand architecture and how I try to think about it; as bodily mass, as membrane, as material, as cladding, fabric, velvet, silk…, everything that surrounds me, the body! Not the idea of the body, but the body! A body that can touch me.
The consonance of materials. 2
Materials harmonise with one another and produce a glow, and from this composition, something unique emerges. Materials have no limits. A single material has thousands of possibilities. I enjoy this work, and the longer I have been doing it, the greater mystery it seems to acquire. But this is not all, there is something else, a critical closeness between materials that depends on the type of material and its weight. Materials can be combined in a building, and there comes a point at which they are too distant from one another, they do not vibrate together, and later another point where they are too close, and then they are as if dead.
The sound of space.3
Every space works like a great instrument; it collects sounds, amplifies them, and transmits them everywhere. It has to do with the form and the surface of the materials it contains and with how these have been applied. Unfortunately, today, many people do not perceive the sound of space at all. Yes, the sound of space; personally, the first thing that comes to mind are noises, the noises of my mother bustling about in the kitchen with pots and pans when I was a child. They made me happy. But one also hears footsteps in the great hall of a railway station, the noises of the city, etc. Let us imagine that we eliminate all the external noise from the building, so that nothing remains to touch it. Then we can ask ourselves: does the building still have a sound? I believe every building emits a sound, one that is not caused by friction. I do not know what it is. I find it beautiful to construct a building and imagine it in its silence. That is, to make the building a serene place, something quite difficult to achieve today, when our world is so noisy. It takes a great deal to make spaces acquire serenity and, from silence, to imagine how the space will sound with appropriate proportions and materials.
The temperature of space.4
I believe every building has a certain temperature. One knows very well that materials extract more or less heat from our body. For example, steel is cold and reduces warmth, and things like that. Perhaps it is a little like 'tempering' pianos — that is, finding the right tuning, both in a literal and figurative sense. That is, this temperature is both physical and psychic. It is what I see, feel, touch, even with my feet.
The things around me.5
Every time I enter buildings, spaces where people live — friends, acquaintances or people I do not know — I am struck by the things people have with them, in their domestic or working environment. And sometimes I notice that things coexist in a caring and careful way, and that they look right there. I wonder whether it is the task of architecture to create a container that could hold all those things, or to welcome the world of work, or whatever; in short, everything that allows one to have those things with oneself. The idea that things which have nothing to do with me as an architect have their place in a building, their proper place, offers me a vision of the future of my buildings, a future that occurs without my intervention. This helps me to imagine the future of the spaces, of the houses I build.
Between serenity and seduction.6
Architecture is undoubtedly a spatial art, but also a temporal art. It is not experienced in a single second. When I reflect on how we move in a building, I keep in mind those two poles of tension that I like to work with. For me it is incredibly important to induce people to move freely, at their own pace, in an atmosphere of seduction and not of direction. Corridors lead people, but they can also seduce them by leaving them free, allowing them to stroll unhurriedly. Sometimes, achieving this has a little to do with scenography. I have to say that is one of my greatest pleasures: not to be led, but to be able to wander in complete freedom, adrift. Like a journey of discovery. As an architect, I must ensure that this does not become, perhaps unintentionally, a true labyrinth. To lead, to induce, to let loose, to give freedom. To create places where there is nothing that serves as a lure, where one can simply be.
The tension between interior and exterior.7
I find it incredible that with architecture, we tear off a piece of the terrestrial globe and build a small box with it. Suddenly, we find ourselves with an inside and an outside. That means: thresholds, transitions, that small hiding place, imperceptible spaces of transition between interior and exterior, an ineffable sense of place, an unspeakable feeling that fosters concentration as we suddenly feel enveloped, gathered and held by the space. And then a play between the individual and the public takes place there. I am proud that we architects are allowed to do similar things in every building. And I always imagine it this way in every building I make. What do I want to see when I am inside? What do I want others to see of me? And what reference do I show with my building by exposing it to the public? Buildings always communicate something to the street or the square. They can say to the square: I am glad to be in this square. Or they can say: I am the most beautiful building; all of you are really bad. I am like a diva. Buildings can say all of that.
Degrees of intimacy.8
It has to do with proximity and distance. The classical architect would call it 'scale', but that sounds too academic. I am referring to something more bodily than scale and dimensions. It concerns various aspects: size, dimension, proportion, and building mass in relation to me. Do you know that narrow, tall door, the one through which people seem to acquire a certain presence as they pass through? The somewhat dull door, wide and slightly amorphous? Do you know those great intimidating portals, those that lend the person opening them an imposing or proud appearance? What I am referring to is the size, mass and weight of things. Interestingly, things larger than me can overwhelm me. But Palladio's Villa Rotonda, for example, is something large and monumental, and yet upon entering, I do not feel intimidated at all, but rather I feel close to the sublime. The surroundings do not frighten me but, in some way, make me larger or allow me to breathe more freely. Both things occur there, surprisingly. One must also take into account the distance or closeness between myself and what has been built. I always like to think that I make something for myself or for another person, for myself alone and for myself within a group.
The light on things.9
I spent five minutes watching what happened in the living room of my house. What was the light like? I began to examine where and how the light fell directly, where there were shadows and how the surfaces were subdued, radiant or emerged from depth. It is fantastic! One of my favourite ideas is first to think of the whole building as a mass of shadows, and then — as in a process of hollowing out — to make reservations for the installation that allows the lights we want. My second favourite idea is to place materials and surfaces under the effect of light, to see how they reflect. It is so beautiful to be able to choose and combine materials, fabrics, garments that shine in the light! About light, natural and artificial, I must confess that the natural, the light on things, moves me sometimes to such a degree that I even think I perceive something spiritual. When the sun rises in the morning and illuminates things again, I say to myself: that light, that light does not come from this world! I do not understand that light. I then have the feeling that there is something greater that I do not understand. I feel an immense joy and am infinitely grateful that something like this exists. For an architect, to have that light is a thousand times better than having artificial light.
In summary, the greatest compliment that can be paid to me is that everything finds its explanation in use. That would be for me the most beautiful compliment. I believe an even more beautiful ancient expression for this is that things then come to be themselves; they are for themselves because they are what they want to be. Architecture has been made for our use. In that sense, it is not a free art. I believe the noblest task of architecture is precisely to be a useful art. But the most beautiful thing is that things have come to be themselves, to be coherent in themselves. Then everything refers to that whole, and one cannot separate place, use and form.
But something is still missing. In the nine points and two appendices, I have avoided speaking about form. We do not work with form; we work with the rest of things: sound, noise, materials, construction, anatomy, etc. With one eye fixed simultaneously on the place and the use. It may be that there is a coherence in this, that many things concur; I look and say to myself: yes, everything fits, but it is not beautiful! I believe that if the work has gone well, things take on a form before which I myself, after such long work, am surprised. Then I experience great joy, and it also makes me feel proud. But yes, in the end, if that does not seem beautiful to me, that is, if it is not beautiful for me, if the form achieved does not move me, I go back again and start from the beginning. This means that the last chapter, or my ultimate goal, could probably be described as beautiful form. Perhaps I find it again in icons, sometimes I find it in a still life, and all of this helps me to see how something has found its form, but I can also find it in utensils of everyday life, in literature or in pieces of music [...].
Book excerpt from Atmospheres by architect Peter Zumthor to explain architectural environments and surrounding objects.
A good place to live and discreet protection. The concept to describe it is 'atmosphere'. Atmosphere speaks to an emotional sensibility, a perception that works at incredible speed and that we human beings possess in order to survive. There is something inside us that immediately tells us a great deal; an immediate understanding, an immediate contact, an immediate rejection.
Carrying out this task of creating architectural atmospheres also has a craft dimension. In my work, there must be a procedure, interests, instruments, and tools. I observe myself now and tell you in nine mini-chapters what I have found along the way, what leads me in a direction when I try to generate that atmosphere in my works. These answers are deeply personal; I have no others. They are highly sensitive and individual; in fact, they are probably the product of personal sensibilities of my own that lead me to do things in a certain way.
The body of architecture.1
The material presence of the things that belong to a work of architecture, of its structure. In them I find the first and greatest secret of architecture: bringing together things and materials of the world so that, united, they create this space. Like our body, with its anatomy and other things that are not seen, a skin, etc., this is how I understand architecture and how I try to think about it; as bodily mass, as membrane, as material, as cladding, fabric, velvet, silk…, everything that surrounds me, the body! Not the idea of the body, but the body! A body that can touch me.
The consonance of materials. 2
Materials harmonise with one another and produce a glow, and from this composition, something unique emerges. Materials have no limits. A single material has thousands of possibilities. I enjoy this work, and the longer I have been doing it, the greater mystery it seems to acquire. But this is not all, there is something else, a critical closeness between materials that depends on the type of material and its weight. Materials can be combined in a building, and there comes a point at which they are too distant from one another, they do not vibrate together, and later another point where they are too close, and then they are as if dead.
The sound of space.3
Every space works like a great instrument; it collects sounds, amplifies them, and transmits them everywhere. It has to do with the form and the surface of the materials it contains and with how these have been applied. Unfortunately, today, many people do not perceive the sound of space at all. Yes, the sound of space; personally, the first thing that comes to mind are noises, the noises of my mother bustling about in the kitchen with pots and pans when I was a child. They made me happy. But one also hears footsteps in the great hall of a railway station, the noises of the city, etc. Let us imagine that we eliminate all the external noise from the building, so that nothing remains to touch it. Then we can ask ourselves: does the building still have a sound? I believe every building emits a sound, one that is not caused by friction. I do not know what it is. I find it beautiful to construct a building and imagine it in its silence. That is, to make the building a serene place, something quite difficult to achieve today, when our world is so noisy. It takes a great deal to make spaces acquire serenity and, from silence, to imagine how the space will sound with appropriate proportions and materials.
The temperature of space.4
I believe every building has a certain temperature. One knows very well that materials extract more or less heat from our body. For example, steel is cold and reduces warmth, and things like that. Perhaps it is a little like 'tempering' pianos — that is, finding the right tuning, both in a literal and figurative sense. That is, this temperature is both physical and psychic. It is what I see, feel, touch, even with my feet.
The things around me.5
Every time I enter buildings, spaces where people live — friends, acquaintances or people I do not know — I am struck by the things people have with them, in their domestic or working environment. And sometimes I notice that things coexist in a caring and careful way, and that they look right there. I wonder whether it is the task of architecture to create a container that could hold all those things, or to welcome the world of work, or whatever; in short, everything that allows one to have those things with oneself. The idea that things which have nothing to do with me as an architect have their place in a building, their proper place, offers me a vision of the future of my buildings, a future that occurs without my intervention. This helps me to imagine the future of the spaces, of the houses I build.
Between serenity and seduction.6
Architecture is undoubtedly a spatial art, but also a temporal art. It is not experienced in a single second. When I reflect on how we move in a building, I keep in mind those two poles of tension that I like to work with. For me it is incredibly important to induce people to move freely, at their own pace, in an atmosphere of seduction and not of direction. Corridors lead people, but they can also seduce them by leaving them free, allowing them to stroll unhurriedly. Sometimes, achieving this has a little to do with scenography. I have to say that is one of my greatest pleasures: not to be led, but to be able to wander in complete freedom, adrift. Like a journey of discovery. As an architect, I must ensure that this does not become, perhaps unintentionally, a true labyrinth. To lead, to induce, to let loose, to give freedom. To create places where there is nothing that serves as a lure, where one can simply be.
The tension between interior and exterior.7
I find it incredible that with architecture, we tear off a piece of the terrestrial globe and build a small box with it. Suddenly, we find ourselves with an inside and an outside. That means: thresholds, transitions, that small hiding place, imperceptible spaces of transition between interior and exterior, an ineffable sense of place, an unspeakable feeling that fosters concentration as we suddenly feel enveloped, gathered and held by the space. And then a play between the individual and the public takes place there. I am proud that we architects are allowed to do similar things in every building. And I always imagine it this way in every building I make. What do I want to see when I am inside? What do I want others to see of me? And what reference do I show with my building by exposing it to the public? Buildings always communicate something to the street or the square. They can say to the square: I am glad to be in this square. Or they can say: I am the most beautiful building; all of you are really bad. I am like a diva. Buildings can say all of that.
Degrees of intimacy.8
It has to do with proximity and distance. The classical architect would call it 'scale', but that sounds too academic. I am referring to something more bodily than scale and dimensions. It concerns various aspects: size, dimension, proportion, and building mass in relation to me. Do you know that narrow, tall door, the one through which people seem to acquire a certain presence as they pass through? The somewhat dull door, wide and slightly amorphous? Do you know those great intimidating portals, those that lend the person opening them an imposing or proud appearance? What I am referring to is the size, mass and weight of things. Interestingly, things larger than me can overwhelm me. But Palladio's Villa Rotonda, for example, is something large and monumental, and yet upon entering, I do not feel intimidated at all, but rather I feel close to the sublime. The surroundings do not frighten me but, in some way, make me larger or allow me to breathe more freely. Both things occur there, surprisingly. One must also take into account the distance or closeness between myself and what has been built. I always like to think that I make something for myself or for another person, for myself alone and for myself within a group.
The light on things.9
I spent five minutes watching what happened in the living room of my house. What was the light like? I began to examine where and how the light fell directly, where there were shadows and how the surfaces were subdued, radiant or emerged from depth. It is fantastic! One of my favourite ideas is first to think of the whole building as a mass of shadows, and then — as in a process of hollowing out — to make reservations for the installation that allows the lights we want. My second favourite idea is to place materials and surfaces under the effect of light, to see how they reflect. It is so beautiful to be able to choose and combine materials, fabrics, garments that shine in the light! About light, natural and artificial, I must confess that the natural, the light on things, moves me sometimes to such a degree that I even think I perceive something spiritual. When the sun rises in the morning and illuminates things again, I say to myself: that light, that light does not come from this world! I do not understand that light. I then have the feeling that there is something greater that I do not understand. I feel an immense joy and am infinitely grateful that something like this exists. For an architect, to have that light is a thousand times better than having artificial light.
In summary, the greatest compliment that can be paid to me is that everything finds its explanation in use. That would be for me the most beautiful compliment. I believe an even more beautiful ancient expression for this is that things then come to be themselves; they are for themselves because they are what they want to be. Architecture has been made for our use. In that sense, it is not a free art. I believe the noblest task of architecture is precisely to be a useful art. But the most beautiful thing is that things have come to be themselves, to be coherent in themselves. Then everything refers to that whole, and one cannot separate place, use and form.
But something is still missing. In the nine points and two appendices, I have avoided speaking about form. We do not work with form; we work with the rest of things: sound, noise, materials, construction, anatomy, etc. With one eye fixed simultaneously on the place and the use. It may be that there is a coherence in this, that many things concur; I look and say to myself: yes, everything fits, but it is not beautiful! I believe that if the work has gone well, things take on a form before which I myself, after such long work, am surprised. Then I experience great joy, and it also makes me feel proud. But yes, in the end, if that does not seem beautiful to me, that is, if it is not beautiful for me, if the form achieved does not move me, I go back again and start from the beginning. This means that the last chapter, or my ultimate goal, could probably be described as beautiful form. Perhaps I find it again in icons, sometimes I find it in a still life, and all of this helps me to see how something has found its form, but I can also find it in utensils of everyday life, in literature or in pieces of music [...].
