Svalbard Arctic Adventure!

"The ability to adapt, and the art of resignation, are some of what is needed most by those who shall live in Svalbard."

-Nord for Det Ode Hav, Liv Balstad 1956

Svalbard, Norway. One of the Northernmost settlements in the world, right up there with Greenland, climbing way past the arctic circle. Human Population = 2100. Polar Bear Population = 3000+. Not a single tree to speak of. The highest vegetation goes up to about your shin and firewood must be shipped from the mainland. 60% Glaciers. Howling, biting winds. Annual air temperature below freezing (-5C). Permafrost at 6 inches below ground. One of the most inhospitable places in the world. Why is anyone living there? Why did I travel there would be a better question...

Well, there are a lot of answers, but the short history of Svalbard is that it was almost always considered a "no-man's land". Meaning no one had true possession of it. If you came out here you were on your own. It wasn't until Norway declared sovereignty over it in 1925 that it was formally recognized as part of a country. Even as recent as the 1990's if you got off the airplane at Longyearbyen (the main settlement) and didn't have the necessary means of survival (tent, sleeping bag, rifle, etc...) you would be turned away and sent back on the same plane you landed on! It is a land of explorers, trappers, miners, whalers, and of course, polar bears. The huge, furry, teethy true owner of the area. The image of the polar bear is everywhere in Svalbard. On signs, coffee mugs, pamphlets, even greeting you at the baggage carousel when you get off the plane (see above...). There are more bears than people, and anytime you leave the main settlement, you are required by law to carry a gun, or have a guide with a gun, in case you have to defend yourself! It is a place where those that would stay have to bunker in against all of the forces that would expel them back to where they came from. It is almost impossible to meet someone born on Svalbard, though the locals that have been there 30+ years are by far the most stress free human beings I've met.

The reason I was there though... Sure it was probably some of the subconscious promise of adventure that lead "The Wanderer" to climb the mountain in Friedrich's painting, or Ogilvie to come out on an expedition to the ends of the earth. But really it was to understand how people were able to exist (and thrive) in an environment that so eagerly wants them gone. How do people build when there is quite literally almost nothing to start with, and how to respond to the climatic challenges involved?

Permafrost is one of the biggest deals up in the northern reaches, meaning frost that never disappears year round. Permanent frost if you will. If the buildings were built with normal foundation systems like the mainland, by resting on or under the earth, the heat generated from the buildings would start to melt the frost, causing the earth to start shift and become unstable. Indeed many of the buildings built by trappers long ago have slid many meters just from their own produced heat alone. To combat this ultimately impossible battle with mother nature, the buildings of Svalbard have learned to raise themselves up on stilts in order to get enough distance from the earth that the difference in temperature does not affect the permafrost. Some of the pilings (such as the research centre below) are drilled as deep as 15m below ground. The building above is an extreme example of the floating structures, as it was used to house funiculars going up and down the hills for the coal mining operations.

One building though, the "Global Seed Vault", is in Svalbard for precisely the reason of permafrost. The ground is always kept at a constant freezing temperature, there is no real earthquake danger, and the location is above sea level (by 120m). All of these factors mean that seeds from around the world can be stored free of the danger of fire, seismic activity, and floods due to icecaps melting. There are over 1.5 million different types of seeds housed in the vault already and it burrows over 150m into the mountain. Its actually just what you would expect a post apocalyptic bunker to be like, stark gray concrete with only one large metal entrance to the depths underneath. When we hiked up and stood before the portal, I could imagine the door creaking open to release a man in clothes from the 1950's, bleary eyed and confused... "What year is it?" he would say. And just to mess with him I would reply "No one knows, we are the last of our kind...".

The biggest building in Longyearbyen is pretty recent, the Svalbard Research Centre, designed by the Norwegian firm JVA based out of Oslo. Before that one of the largest structures was the Radisson hotel, that was part of the Olympic games in 1998 and then shipped out piece by piece to its new resting grounds (many buildings are built in chunks in the mainland and then shipped out to site). But the research centre was too big to be built in chunks, though the majority of all the structure was prefabricated to allow for ease of use putting together on site. The period of construction in Svalbard is short, and as the winter approaches it becomes too cold to continue, so building must be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. In the case of the Research Centre, one of the main conditions was actually wind. To protect against the harsh environments, it was to function as a sort of arctic university campus, though inside-out. Anders Granli over at JVA says one of the main factors leading to them getting the project was their philosophy of what a campus could be. Since its impossible to wander around sunny tree-lined boulevards flanked with maples, the parks and sidewalks of the campus are inside, along the wood lined warm corridors. The interior form is meant to recall the distorted mind shafts that are borrowed into the hills, with colors placed to psychologically recall the hues of the small amounts of flora that exist in Svalbard.

On the outside, the building had to be able to react to the extreme winds and storms that would be coming its way. Extensive computer modeling was down to cant the forms and elevations, allowing snow drifts to go through rather than around the raised building. Eva, the lady that was giving me a tour explained that the interior courtyard still traps some of the snow and trash from the city, though proudly pointed out that they have the last bit of summer snow in Longyearbyen every year. Copper was chosen on the outside of the building because of its material properties relating to cold. Where other metals get brittle and break, copper was able to be manipulated by a worker with heavy gloves on even in the very low digits. It also allowed for less seams, with the roof wrapping down to the sides and slightly underneath, with less chances for wind swept snow to pierce to the air gap inside the wall cavity.

I was drawn to Svalbard and its architecture precisely because of this stubbornness to exist. Not a single tree on the entire island means everything, and I mean everything ('cept coal) has to be imported from the mainland. Many of the buildings, like the Radisson hotel, are "chunked", built in bigger pieces in Norway and shipped out to be placed down in the settlement. A downside of this seems to be the buildings look and react the same way they do in other places, not native to Svalbard. Besides the bedroom windows being tiny (midnight sun), they are almost identical to houses you would typically see around Oslo or other places. I asked one of the professors at UNIS about insulation levels, thinking they must be gigantic compared to houses in milder climates, but surprisingly he answered they were almost identical in section, with an air gap in between the sheathing and relatively thin depth. The way they get around this is coal. Cheap King Coal. The entire settlement of Longyearbyen is heated by giant hot water pipes coming directly from the local coal plant a long stone's throw down the road. There is plenty of power to go around so the radiators just get turned up a little bit more and everyone is toasty. It turns out that the wind is the big thing you have to protect against. It is one of the few places that I know of that the separation of power produced and home use is completely abandoned, with everyone walking or driving by their source of livelihood almost every day. The fossil fuels are so abundant on the island and all other power sources so hard to ship that it might be one of the few cases where coal is the more sustainable option, I'm still torn on the subject. In a funny/sad side note, they add chemicals to make the smoke from the plant grey instead of black, which looks better, but then I'm imagining all of these more harmful chemicals floating around in the air b/c of it.

Thoughts on Traveling #24 :

Legally, I have to add that I had been joined in Svalbard by the rough and very tough character of Shawn "'Stache" Nee. He's a law student and has threatened numerous times to sue me unless I say he saved me from a polar bear. It's true, it's all true.

Reindeer Games

How to go about explaining this... I just got done with 10 days on the road criss-crossing the highways of Norway. And when I say "on the road" I mean just that. The furthest I ever got away from the great asphalt dragon was maybe a quarter of a mile. Sleeping on the side of the road in either my rented car {nicknamed "Gonzo", I was reading a biography of Hunter Thompson at the time...} or one of the small dollhouse looking cabins that dot the countryside. My goal, to see as many of the rest stops and national tourist roads as my stamina and our current world's reserve of oil would allow. I got pretty close I'll tell you, but it was a whirlwind adventure of blurred forms, slow moving sheep, and twisty paths. To quickly sum up, here are my "stats":

-10 days/9 nights
-5200+ km driven
-1 broken side mirror
-5 nights snoring in the passenger seat
-2 hot meals {and one lousy burger}
-25+ stall outs {all the first two days}
-10 National Tourist Roads
-3 construction site visits
-1 hard hat
-50+ reindeer
-god knows how many sheep
-17 projects

There is a great website called turistveg.no/ that provides tons of great information and pictures on the projects, both those already done and what is planned. By the year 2015 there will be upwards of 200 architectural interventions scattered along the roads, with the hopes of encouraging tourism to the more remote locations in Norway. For the most part, the roads tend to be either right along the rocky coast or in the heights of the mountains, from one extreme of sea level to the next. Just to give you one indication of how remote some of these places are, for one project I had to drive past a cemetery, through wind farm, and turn onto a gravel path in order to get to a restaurant overlooking the arctic ocean...

I was interested to see how the various architects associated with the projects were going to approach the construction. Many of the projects are at the top of mountains where you have to wind your way up one lane turned 2 car roads in order to access the site, much less getting heavy equipment in place. But where there is a will there is a way and I must say I was astounded by the differences among roads and interventions of materials and methods used. From wood, to concrete, to steel, to glass, rocks, you name it, it shows up in one form or the other. Some successfully, others in my opinion end up being preconceived sleek forms plopped down in the nether reaches of the country. But I would say the vast majority take a definite standpoint on designing the project from the end to the start, and by that I mean thinking about how it will be built/transported to the site from the get go and letting the design develop towards that goal.

Many projects were broken down to a minimal amount of materials. Concrete and metal in the case of the lookout at Rondane, wood and metal at Lillefjord. Though the forms are incredibly sculptural and seemingly complex, when you study them for a while you actually find out that they are quite simple structurally. By that I mean many times they use an incredibly "dumb" structural base, and use another more malleable material to make the jagged shapes and cants.

A perfect case is the rest stop in Senja. From initially looking at its wonky path and skewed bathroom core, you would assume it was a feat of both physics and structural gymnastics. But on closer observation you can uncover that the steel structure that it rests on is extremely simple and rigid. The metal columns resting on the rock below are in an unwavering grid and work their way down the landscape in a straight line with the rhythm of one, two, gap, three, gap, one, two, gap, three, etc... A simple bolt connection holds them in place eliminating the need for extensive and expensive on site welding. The the easier to manipulate wooden members are allowed to slide and shift along the already established steel path, creating a path that is seemingly as organic as the rock formation it rests on. Even the concrete core that is used to form the restrooms is really a quite simple skewed concrete cube that has inserts for wood left out. The core is simple and achieves its visual complexity through wooden slats going in different directions.

Another one of my favorite projects from the lens of maximum impact with minimal materials is the lookout in Rondane by Carl Viggo Holmebakk. Most rest stops are latent in the sense that they do not actively engage the landscape, content to hang back and offer someone somewhere to pee or sit if need be. The concrete lookout actually amplifies its surroundings in the sense that you would normally just pass through this stretch of highway, barely noticing the countless trees as they are everywhere you look. By their repetition they become just another blur of the landscape to be whizzed by. Holmebakk shows the importance of a seemingly random grove of trees by establishing a raised concrete platform that winds and weaves its way through the existing trees. Casting off their shackles of obscurity, the flora is given a sense of nobility. Redwood royalty in the making. The platform is made entirely of concrete except for the openings in the floor, which are covered in a steel mesh to allow light to filter down to the underside. Not at the base of the trees anymore, since the ground continues to fall away, the further out you walk the higher you become in the surrounding canopy. The whole project if relatively small, maybe 80 feet or so from the entrance to the tip, but so well executed you view the landscape in a completely different way than you would have before.

I've been thinking a lot about rest stops actually {see picture above of me thinking as proof}. And as the thesis cloud begins to loom overhead my thoughts are starting to converge before the inevitable downpour in January and beyond. What a loaded word. "Rest Stop". A place to stop and rest, but what does one truly need to rest? It can't be as simple as alleviation of bodily fluids and a stiff board for a back rest. How can you design an architectural intervention that allows for both resting of the body and mind? One that becomes an active participant in the landscape, not content to sit idly by on the bench but transforming and enhancing the existing condition. Presenting it in a way that you never would have thought of before. Rest stops by their nature are only necessary as the stitching that holds fabric of urban areas together. By their definition they are remote, needed only where you don't have access to amenities usually found in even low-density civilization. In other times they would be a well to draw up water for your thirst, or as Mark Twain describes in Roughing It, a place to change out horses as you roll non-stop westwards in the bumping, jostling carriage. They are ingrained in the American psyche as well, with our glorious big laned highway system. Open road with the top down. Isn't that the American Dream? Or is that a house and 2.5 kids? I can't remember, but regardless it is a necessary part of the yearning that many Americans who have ever set out in a wood grained station wagon can attest to.

Well its late and the unification of the members of BOOM CLAP! {aka the other Branners} is coming up starting tomorrow! So I have to get some sleep in anticipation of what is to come. We're meeting in the Netherlands and I can't wait to catch up in person and not blog/email form.

Thoughts on Traveling #23 :

I've been to Hell. It has a pretty crappy hotel and relatively cheap gas. See photographic evidence.

Also this is just hilarious and where I got the post title from. Not the Ben Affleck movie. I do have to say though, in my defence "I love College" was only playing on the radio b/c it was the first time I have ever heard it and couldn't tell if the guy was being serious or not. I've heard it many times since, don't get me started on Nordic Pop Radio.

Back on the road again (like the song...)

In Norway now, the land of vikings and the world's largest per person consumer of coffee. I figured I should give a little disclaimer on the blog to announce my absence, because I'll be getting out on the Norwegian Highways for the next 10 days and am not sure what access I'll have to a computer...

I'm doing research on a collection of projects under the umbrella association "Norwegian Tourist Routes". By 2015, there should be over 200 different projects completed, ranging from rest stops and bird watching towers, to bike sheds and service stations. They have announced 5 sections officially and have 13 more in the current process of construction. Architects from all over Norway have competed in competitions and the work from what I've seen already is amazing.

Here are some of the firms I've ran across engaged in the projects:

Jensen and Skodvin
Code:arkitektur
Pushak
70N arkitektur
Snoheta
Reiulf Ramstad Arkitektur
Saunders Architecture

And some more info about the overall scope of the project can be found here.

So hope to post again soon, but now its off to spend more than a few nights in a car, and the rain doesn't look to be letting up anytime soon...

Holy Zumthor Battle Royal

What? Exactly.

I like the title because it is attention grabbing. But what exactly am I talking about? Well, I just crossed the border from Switzerland to its northern neighbor Germany a few days ago and have been doing some Peter Zumthor pilgrimages. On the list of projects to see [among others] were Zumthor's St. Benedict Chapel [San Benedetg] and Brother Klaus Chapel [Bruder Klaus]. The former in Sumvitg, Switzerland and the latter near the small small town of Wachendorf, Germany. Seeing both of the amazing pieces of architecture in such a short time apart got me thinking of what they had in common, and understandably thought they warranted a head to head contest of spatial might to see which would emerge the victor. Though, the architectural contest is more similar to the "dream league" of youth soccer in North Carolina. One where there are no victors and losers, and everyone gets orange slices afterwards.

Before we ring the bell, I first feel morally obligated to tell people how to reach the Brother Klaus Chapel, because it is not exactly easy through public transportation. Especially if you have such a loathing of posted signage and think you can find a quicker way by cutting through farmland [I can blame George Medlin for handing that trait down...]. But quickly, here are directions to the Chapel so others do not get into a situation where they are wandering down a busy highway with no shoulder.

From Cologne, Germany, take a train to Satzvey, one stop before Mechernich. There aren't many buses running, and especially on a Sunday so I recommend walking the 4km to the town of Wachendorf from the station. You're going to be heading roughly east by southeast the whole way if that helps. First thing is go south from the station and cross over the train tracks. Keep walking on that road and you'll get to a t-intersection. Whatever you do, don't turn right. That will put you on the highway and people will honk at you when coming around blind corners. Instead follow the sign to Wachendorf and take the left road. Walking along the bike road you should pass under a bridge in a few minutes, if you do you're on the right track. After you go under the bridge take a right onto Veyerstrausse. After walking on that road for about 10 minutes you should see yourself approaching a small town named Lessenich. Bear right once you get into town and look for signs to Wachendorf on your left. The aptly named street will be titled "Wachendorferstrausse" and will later turn into Iversheimerstrausse. After 15 minutes or so you should see the parking lot on the right hand side for "Bruder Klaus Kapelle" and the road Ribdorfer Weg. From the parking lot its another fifteen minute walk down the gravel road.

You're welcome.

Back to the real reason we're all here. Small Zumthor Chapels. I haven't read any texts comparing the two yet so I figured I would foster some of my own thoughts to fill the void. Both buildings are by the same architect, similar both in small size and remoteness of location. Both have a single entry with light coming in from above and religious program. Both have construction methods expressed as the act of making which shapes the design. With all this in common, what could be different? We'll start with site...

Context
St. Benedict's is nestled along the mountainside, lush grasslands provide space for cattle to graze and flies to lazily drone around. Greens and browns dot the landscape, and hiking paths trace through the woods down the steeply sloping site. In contrast to the animals grazing are the surroundings of the Klaus Chapel. Golden in hue, fields of wheat and gentle flatland stretch out as far as you can see. Even from a distance the building rises above the low farmland like a concrete stump that has been allowed to reside on the owner's land for some time.

Approach
Getting up to the buildings beholds something different. You come from below the wooden chapel and its presence is hidden many times by the buildings sitting close beside it. Its concrete step-brother is in the middle of a flat farmland, and on the 15 minute walk to get there it is always is the foreground of your vision, even though the path turns and twists. Where San Benedict shows you the entry upon coming in contact with it, Klaus sits blank and stonewalled in expression, and only upon walking around do you find out how to get into the up-till-then quiet exterior.

Entry
Both doors are made of metal. Though the entry is coated in wood in the case of San Beneditg, hiding its true nature under slats of pine. Klaus on the other hand, makes no question of what its portal is constructed of. It appears as a solid piece of metal and its weight to open it proves its nature. The entry of the wooden chapel pulls itself out of the building and the other is recessed flush with the face of the concrete.

Threshold
At Saint Benedict's, you are required to ascend a small staircase to elevate you to the floor height of the interior. The concrete staircase does not actually touch the building, but is held off by a small gap that separates it from the wood. In the case of Klaus, the lead floor meets a crushed stone entry path that is barely raised from its surrounding grass and gravel. The height difference and the actual meeting of materials is different and exaggerated in both accounts.

Outside
St. Benedict's takes the colors of the forest to heart, both philosophically and literally resembling the outer layer of bark on a tree. Rough and shaggy, the outside of the chapel is covered with weathered wooden shingles that show the passage of time and seasons. The exterior of the chapel devoted to Brother Klaus by contrast is smooth to the touch and eyes. Monolithic in appearance, the only secret it reveals about it's inside are the series of holes left by the concrete formwork used in construction. Benches on the outside allow you to sit after the short pilgrimage walk.

Inside
The inside of the chapels inverses itself in each individual case. The chapel from Sumtvig casts away its coarse exterior to take on the refined rectilinear form of smooth wooden pews and columns. The furniture is smooth to the touch and there is plenty of room to sit down and direct your attention forward at a horizontal angle to the alter. The craggy interior of Klaus is again a direct contrast to its smooth outer face. The process of construction for the inside was to stack trees up together in a tent like fashion and then burn them out, leaving a dark blackened surface that is jagged and eerily natural to the touch. There is only room for two grown people to sit down on the inside, and your views are directed upwards towards the religious fixture and light streaming in from above.

Light
One from above, one from the side. The light that meets the warm wooden exterior of St. Benedict's illuminates the interior, flooding the seats and floors with rays of sunshine. Light bounces around easily due to the bright coloring of the material and paint. Dark and brooding, the majority of light comes into Klaus from the top, with small amounts radiating from the glass spheres put in place of the holes to the outside. The shadows that fall tend to exaggerate the rough interior and draw attention to its ribs.

There is plenty more to talk about in the case of these two long separated brothers of sorts. I wish they could meet one day and listen to the conversation they would have between the two of them. Do you think they would get along? Would one like Death Metal while the other is a Beatle's fan? Personally I think they are like identical twins separated at birth, raised in different houses, but with the same core of being.

Time to sign out now though, mosquitoes are eating me alive and look to be calling more of their friends over to an easy meal.

Vrin and Gion Caminada

One of the biggest reasons I am in Switzerland to begin with was the study the work and context of the architect Gion A. Caminada. Gion lives and works out of the small town of Cons, about 1.5km south of the small mountain village of Vrin, population 240. Vrin lies in the Lumnezia valley in the canton of Graubunden, Switzerland, nestled into the Alps that surround it. For most exterior purposes, Vrin is like many of the mountain villages that dot the landscape in the Swiss countryside. It has a small population made up of mostly farmers and herdsman, struggles with what and how to regard tourism while retaining its unique culture, and has faced economic hardship and dwindling population over the years. But Vrin is different in that in 1979 they formed the "Pro Vrin Foundation" in order to try and preserve their culture and way of life, but also actively seek new alternatives and methods in both architecture and planning that would not allow them to fade into economic obscurity. They started with the mantra "Preservation by Design", which means to keep their heritage intact but develop new methods of building in this remote mountain community.

One of the methods of building that Gion Caminada and the population of Vrin have been working with most extensively is the art of "strickbau" construction. Strickbau is extremely common in most alpine regions and consists of "layered wooden beams, 'knitted' together at the corners for stability and typically extending somewhat from the core block." One of the main industries in the alpine region is wood, so thick timbered construction is used for its durability and plentiful availability. What Gion was faced with, was how to take this traditional building technique and incorporate it into buildings of the 21st century. Also important was the economic livelihood of Vrin, so using local labor and materials was necessary to jump start the economy again and keep the money in the hands of the community with the creation of new jobs. What I think is most important about all of this is that the architecture is not a radical departure from the traditions and techniques developed over the ages, but an improvement and building upon them. Many times I would walk by a building several times without realizing it was designed by Gion, which I believe to be a great testament to fitting within and enhancing a given context, not trying to overpower it. Which made me think of Vals, and the introduction of Peter Zumthor's baths. I'm not sure how the village was before the pritzker prize winner designed his masterpiece, but it has also transformed the countryside through the construction of numerous and not particularly well done hotels needed to cope with the large increase in tourism. Does dropping a wonderful piece of architecture into a rural mountain town radically transform that area by tourism alone and therefore destroy what made it unique in the first place? Though of course this is also a question about how to handle tourism, and I digress back to my initial point about the context of Vrin... In response to a question about repetition or discovery in an interview, Caminada replies:

"Repetition has always interested me. I find the vast visual diversity of our modern cities extremely boring. The monosyllabic style of an old Italian city is attractive by contrast. I believe we are not even capable of registering too much diversity. One must repeat certain things to prevent the world from becoming monotonous."

I brought the quote up because I believe it talks about the context of Vrin and the honest attempt to fit in with a context, not act as a radical departure for it. Which brings up a whole other slew of questions about globalization and if architects should even be allowed to design in a place they have never been. Even after doing multiple competitions myself in locations I had never traveled to before, I'm under the mindset that all of the internet research and googleEarth mapping I could do would never be enough for actual on the ground experience. Caminada has lived in Vrin almost his whole life, growing up there to his farmer father and working in carpentry for most of his youth, and mostly only branched out to similar contexts he can understand and design within.

But back to the"strickbau" typology [there are too many things to write about and not enough keystrokes in the day]. As I mentioned earlier in my ramblings, strickbau is a construction type made up of heavy wooden members knitted together and usually extending over at the corners. Think "Lincoln Logs" in real scale and you'll be pretty close to picturing it. Strickbau was and is used because it could deal with non intensively manufactured logs and minimal construction materials, many of the fasteners being different types of dovetail joinery. The question then is how to take this construction type and update it to meet the modern demands of residences and buildings with the improvement of building technologies? Currently, Caminada has been updating the joint where the members connect using a hybrid type of stick framing eerily similar to some construction in the United States. Though instead of regular platform framing studs, parts of the wall are pre-assembled and overlap at the corners for a minimum use of material but still strong structural strength. The benefit in the new technique is that it also limits the use of complicated joinery and time consuming fitting, allowing construction to keep up without sacrificing quality. Caminada continues to experiment in every building, trying out new techniques, but gratefully they always seem to be like steps of a seasoned hiker, slow and steady, never hopping from stone to stone.

Before I move on to barns, I wanted to leave you with another quote from Caminada's book Cul zuffel e l'aura dadl : Gion A. Caminada. You should definitely pick the book up as I could spend days blogging and only graze the surface of many of the different and pertinent topics it discusses. In response to the topic of transparent spaces:

"Dealing playfully with any event or occurrence is possible only when certain rules for play exist. By contrast, current playful approaches to completely open spaces reflect the weakness of today's lifestyle. By that I mean the freedom of life in the modern world and the people who have no idea how to deal with this kind of freedom. The classical Modern period generated this freedom but it didn't teach anyone the art of dealing with it once it was attained..."


Even without the work of Gion Caminada, the small village of Vrin somehow managed to steal a small piece of my heart and lock it away in one of the many farm buildings. And when I say many, I mean many. The "core" of Vrin clusters together as if animals seeking warmth from the closeness of the nearby homes, while the hills are dotted with structures to store hay and many times the animals that eat it. The landscape is not completely natural, and without the constant cutting of the grass for fodder, it would eventually turn back into the heavily forested area that it once was. To store the grass that is cut, there are wooden structures extremely similar formally to those that are present in Vals [see previous post], but with some very important differences. It is interesting that though Vals and Vrin are only separated by a mountain range, the valleys speak different languages, German and Romansch, and buildings with the exact same function should be so similar yet so different. In Vrin, what drew me to the grass barns was their almost religious devotion to a particular size and form.

From what I can understand, this is largely due to the size of the timber that could be cut and carried to the site and then assembled into the barn. The plot of land that is tended to by the structure is dependent on how much grass can be stored at any one time, therefore the spacing of the buildings is somewhat regular spatially, as they are all almost the same size. The hay storage is on the top level, with the door raised above the average height of the snow during the winter. All of the barns sit perpendicular to the slope, also to allow access from the backside for the animals to be sheltered in the small lower story. What is most interesting about the barns for me is their rigid similarity, but subtle differences. Each is almost the exact same dimension, yet in their construction or possibly the idiosyncrasies of the owners, each is subtly different. Repeated over and over again, they make a powerful presentation of design within a box, or in this case a barn.

Thoughts on Traveling #22 : Why is it always that one of the last pictures you take is a jumping picture? Its like you've run out of things to do so you figure you'll just lift your feet in the air and that will make a better picture. It makes no sense what-so-ever and I thereby dismiss them as a practical insensibility, after this one that is... [sidenote: the TaylorCAM was in action during this time, I'm really looking forward to what this whole series looks like]

Bathing with the Best

Excerpt from my travel sketchbook while in Peter Zumthor's Thermal Baths:

"...in the 42°C water room I was thinking about the morality of space and wanted to write my thoughts down before they flutter away like little angry birds. It all started when I was thinking about stealing a towel in the main area [I had not brought one and could not figure out where to obtain one for the life of me]. As my imaginary devil and angel were locked in a heated debate, I opted to await their decision in the "fire" room after a briefer than expected plunge into the opposite extreme, the 14°C pool. As you enter the 42° room [not big enough for more than 8 people sitting comfortably] the colors change from from the blue, green, and gray hues to a deep burgundy wall and flat concrete made to look pinkish by reflected light. I very slowly made my way into the water, further confusing my body that was only a minute ago actively attempting to prevent hypothermia. The floor of the small space was rougher than normal. Aggregate in concrete blown away to expose reddish and muddy brown rocks. The height of the water was just above the headrest, less than an inch deep.

As I stared up at the ceiling I was contemplating if the space itself was what was giving me this more dwelled on than normal moral dilemma? In short, was it possible for a space to have a moral character? I got thinking back to many of the churches that stuck out in my memory... Fay Jones' Thorncrown, Mont St. Michel, St. Peters... What if it was not the overbearing thought of eternal damnation or the presence of mysterious symbols that filled my body with moral fiber, but the actual space itself? Are prisons in their design un-moral, and therefore condone the violence that goes on in between their walls? Would it be better to have a beautiful space for a prison or would that go against the idea of punishment deemed necessary? Is isolation enough of a punishment in its own accord that it doesn't need to couple itself with horribly designed spaces?

Was it the light above, or the temperature of the water, or sounds echoing off of the walls that made me smile at passerbys more than normal? For me, the baths have a sacred quality to them, rivaling many of the churches I have seen in my limited years. After this long game of moral badminton, I still ended up stealing the towel. Not sure what that means about me yet though, some questions are better left alone maybe..."

Suffice to say the "Baths" were a mind altering experience, and lead to the thinking of deep thoughts in shallow water.

The small village of Vals held its own uniqueness though. Vals is located in a narrow valley in the Alps, with close shorn green hills rising up on either side dotted with a very particular farm building. The building itself is used for storage of the grass that is cut and used for fodder for livestock. One taken by itself is not a spectacular sight, but when multiplied hundreds of times over, the formal language becomes extremely powerful by repetition alone. They are all nearly identical formally but the closer you look, each is made personal in some form or another by its owner and caretaker. They rise from a stone plinth [concrete in the modern ones], possibly to get them above the snow line in winter, and the stone continues upwards to create four stout corners used to hold up the roof. All four sides are then infilled with usually vertical wooden siding, though the side on the uphill direction has the door used to shuffle the hay inside for storage. Seeing all of these farm structures done with craft and strong regional ties got me more than a little nostalgic for the tobacco barns I grew up with in my home state of North Carolina.

I hope to find out more about the structures that are such an integral part of alpine village culture in the future though so far I'm having trouble finding English speaking citizens in the small towns. Back in Chur now and will be heading to the small remote village of Vrin tomorrow for 3 days so its likely I'll be MIA for a bit.


Thoughts on Traveling #21 : Zumthor... I know its probably not your fault and everything... but this has got to be the worst entrance to a place of relaxation I've ever seen. I felt like I was about to walk into a strip club in a bad part of town.

Miss Swiss Miss

I just got into Switzerland and boy are my arms tired. My arms aren't tired from flying or anything ridiculous like that. People can't fly, that's crazy. No they were tired b/c I think I slept on them wrong on my plane ride into Zurich. And for those of you that are confused because my last blog entry was in Chile, don't be. A lot of stuff happened and then I got to Switzerland. End of story. Well not the end of the story at all, but I'll get back to it later I hope. But in the vain hope to stay current we are now in Swiss territory.

Zurich is one of the most tidiest, cleanest cities I have ever seen. It's streets are so clean you can eat off of them, and in fact one time I almost did since my bratwurst hit pavement. I hope they are paying their street-sweepers six figure salaries though, because it is also one of the most expensive places I have ever been. Single espresso? 4 dollars. One hour of internet? 7 dollars. Towel rental from a hostel? 5 dollars!?! I'll dry with toilet paper thank you.

I stayed about 3 days in the city and on the last day I ran across some Ivan Valin worthy research along the canals of the city center. Apparently the canals in Zurich are clean enough to swim in, as a young Swiss job-skirting population jumps into the fast moving canal and drift/swim down a ways. Then get out, walk and chat up to the put in point, and do it again. Nestled along the sides of the riverway (is that a real word?) are fences to lock bikes in, and plenty of hard deck surface to lay out in towels on. Volleyball courts, beer stands, diving boards, and one chain-smoking lifeguard all come together in the middle of the city to do the water equivalent of frolicking. Sadly it was my last day and my trunks were packed in a trunk in the hotel, so I left Zurich arid but sweating to go to the smaller town of Chur to the east.

Fact about Switzerland:
There is no standing army, men between the ages of 21 and 32 are given a gun and 24 rounds of ammunition to keep at their homes and undertake a few days to weeks of training a year. Then after discharge they go into National Guard service.

That is in no way relevant, but thought it was interesting. Chur. Its a pretty small city (pop. 32000) in a flat valley flanked by two tall mountains on either side. Located in the Swiss canton of Graubunden on the eastern side of the country, its being used as my home base as I try to seek out some zumthor work as well as the small small town of Vrin (pop. around 300) a train's throw away from Chur. Vrin is home to the work of Gion A. Caminada, where he has done many notable projects in the tiny town with local labor and materials.

To get a better feel for the town that is to be my home for the next week, I decided to take a hike up the mountain to get a better look. I didn't really consciously make the decision to go on a hike, but having just gone to the grocery store and buying peanut butter, jelly, bread, and tuna, I didn't really have any alternatives. Before I knew it I was crossing a road with rather fast moving and quick reacting car traffic in order to find a breach in the fenced in fortifications at the base of the mountain. Eventually I stumbled on what could be a trail, but since there were only markings with no words, I couldn't tell if it was telling me to stay out or go in? What would you think if you saw three horizontal bars stacked on top of each other with 2 white and one red in the middle? Feeling in an optimistic mood, I took it as an invitation and ducked around the nearby house to start scrambling. After a while the broad 6 foot wide trail became lazy, washed out and became a 6 inch wide overgrown footpath. I eventually made it to a place where they had been doing some recent logging and was interested in some of the improvements they had made in their infrastructure.

For preventing drainage in their gravel roads, they used sections of old railroad ties buried in the earth with concrete on either side to not allow for shifting. The trough in the middle was left open so that water could spill out harmlessly and the railroad metal meant that it would last a very long time. In other locations, where there were replanting efforts going on, the bottom of the fence pole was burned, presumably to keep termites from eroding the wood.

Back in the hostel now and ran across some interesting research conducted by "New Scientist" magazine. They were attempting to find where the "Most Remote Place in the World" was. Before Stephen Loicano has an aneurysm, I think Antarctica was discounted in the search, so it mostly deals with the other continents. But it discounts air travel and looks at how long it takes to travel somewhere by land or water from a city with the population of 50,000. From their research it looks like Tibet is the "most remote place on earth", with one location taking 20 days of hiking and one day of car travel to get there. To be really honest I think they should have included air travel, but then it wouldn't have been as interesting.

Also found two other interesting terms. A "pole of inaccessibility" marks a location that is most challenging to reach owing to its remoteness from geographic features that could provide access. "Point Nemo" is the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, or the place furtherest from any land mass at 48 52.6 S x 123 23.6 W. "Ultima Thule" in medieval geographies was meant to denote any distant place located beyond "the borders of the known world". Looks like I'm heading to Tibet...

Thoughts on Traveling #20 : It is impossible to win staring contests with young children. Yet they have no patience. It makes no logical sense.