Emma Gilleece

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    Vulnerable Monsters

    Emma Gilleece reviews ‘SOS Brutalism: a Global Survey’; published by Park Books, 2017 (RRP €68) ‘SOS Brutalism; A Global Survey’ is the first-ever international survey of Brutalist architecture from the 1950s to the 1970s, a collaboration by the Deutsches Architekturmuseum DAM and the Wüstenrot Foundation. It is an understatement to say that this book is a colossal contribution to architectural discourse and twentieth-century conservation. As explored in its essays, even the process of defining this enigmatic genre, still muscular and enthralling after almost 65 years is like grasping wet soap. Each contributor eagerly tries to grip it with the same enthusiasm and excitement that these Brutalist pioneers must have felt when their concrete ‘monsters’ were taking shape. Nevertheless, the debates and divisions are all part and of Brutalism’s contrary appeal. Cult Status The godfather of modern architectural criticism, Kenneth Frampton, contextualises Brutalism in the foreword to the book, incisively distinguishing it for example from the“people’s detailing” of the shallow-pitched, tile roofs, cavity brick walls, invariably white “amiable, unchallenging, anti-street, garden-city aesthetic” which “came under therubric of contemporary architecture asopposed to the pre-war notion of a severelyabstract modern architecture”. The scope of the database of brutalist constructions, contained in an accompanying tome, is staggering: more than 750 pages. It was an important basis for the selection of the book’s 120 case-studies from twelveregions extending to Africa, the Middle Eastand Oceania. Accompanying the survey are essays from its editors and contributors exploring questions such as whether a building is now Brutalist, or merely a late-modern, exposed-concrete, edifice; the discrepancy between the terms New Brutalism and Brutalism; contemporary efforts to preserve Brutalist buildings across the globe and theassumed continuity debate. The goal of the book is to spotlight the evaluation and preservation of the heritage value of Brutalist works. This is no small task for Brutalism is divisive. Popular Culture The compiling of the database sosbrutalism.org by architectural crowd-sourcing, reflects the egalitarian nature of Brutalism mirrored by the role social media has played in Brutalism’s renaissance. For example, think of the international reach to thePreston Bus Station campaign in 2012 which swung its fate from razing to Grade II listing. In recent years Brutalist architecture has achieved a second flowering (cementing?)on social media where its images bulge and captivate. However, there is also a renewed interest in Brutalism in scientific journals, symposia and exhibitions. It appears it’s position in the cycle of fashion and derision is upwardly bound. Perhaps not uncoincidentally, too late for many exemplars. The database was launched in October 2015 with 250 entries. By September 2017, ithad grown to 1,100 Brutalist buildings, many formerly undercelebrated, of which 120 are endangered through neglect or intended demolition. Experts, architectural buffs and photographers contributed to the survey either by contacting them directly, or by adopting the #SOSBrutalism hashtag. The Irish Contribution The only Irish case study is Stephenson, Gibney and Associates’ practice head-quarters Molyneaux House, Dublin (1971- 73)written by Erika Hanna. Hanna describes the now anachronistic attitudes not only of that firm but also of Irish planning at that time: “They also publicly delighted in confounding the conservation lobby and were at the center of the most high-profle controversies…demolishing a Georgian streetscape to construct offices for the Electricity Supply Board; building the bunkerish Civic offices on the remains of Viking Dublin;and erecting the Central Bank building higher than its planning permission permitted”. In the endangered list for Ireland they include; the IDA Small Business Centre(1983), by Scott Tallon Walker, highlighted inred as under threat; Stephenson and Gibney’s Fitzwilliam Lawn Tennis Club (1973); and the Ulster Museum Extension by Francis Pym (1962-64). Sadly Fitzwilton House (1964-1969) by Shoolheifer and Burley is in red but will soon be crossed out by demolition. With the refurbishment of the former Central Bank on Dame Street, this book and the publication later this year of ‘More Than Concrete Blocks: Dublin City’s Twentieth-century buildings and their stories, 1940 – 73 Vol. II’ (Dublin, Four Courts Press), no doubt Brutalism will attract new fans overcoming the visceral aesthetic contempt always evident from those with unimaginative good taste.   Design This hardback is accompanied by a bonus paperback supplement of contributions made to the international symposium on Brutalism that took place in Berlin in May 2012. The retro, voguishly-burlap-bound book perfectlycaptures its scintillating subject era. Many will recognisethe book’s nod to the design of Reyner Banham’s seminal book The New ‘Brutalism: Ethic or aesthetic?’ (1966), the bible of Brutalism which knew, as times were changing, heralded its death. The photographs, both colourand atmospheric black-and-white; sketches; plans andsections make it a joy to turn each page and the list in the Appendix counterpoints the easy joy with evocations of the arresting magnitude of the speed and scaleof loss. The Appendix lists 986 buildings as of September 2017. Threatened/endangered buildings are markedred, demolished buildings are crossed out. Geographic coordinates are provided. More Than a Catalogue More than a catalogue, the book’s fantastically researched essays try to define elusive Brutalism, charting its rise and fall and pinpointing its appeal. The movement went beyond aesthetics. These buildings are embedded in the debates of their time when questions of design profoundly refracted a larger political context.Although an international movement, it was regionally-embedded coinciding with a period of decolonisation and nation-building (Africa, Asia), of reconstruction (Europe, Japan), and of rapid modernisation (North/Latin America, Middle East). Wherever we look, Brutalist buildings leered, all over the world, in most political systems. How many Brutalisms are there? Did the end of Brutalism coincide with the fall of thewelfare state and the beginning of neoliberalism? Did Brutalism become too costly atsome point, because the labour required for customised sculptural products was too expensive? Oliver Eiser’s essay, ‘Just what isit that Makes Brutalism Today so Appealing’,decrees that a new form of Brutalist architecture is long overdue. Annette Busse inher paper, ‘From brut to Brutalism, Developments between 1900 and 1955’, delves into the significance of the difference in the meaning of the words brut and brutal in English, French and German; and into the

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    The ruins of summer

    Growing up on the Mill Road in the suburb of Corbally in Limerick, I was always intrigued by what I considered to be the remains of an entrance to an ancient Greek temple leading down into the river. A forgotten gathering place bereft of any purpose. Having moved to Dublin I discovered other open-air baths in the sea no longer in use. I learned of their popularity up until the 1960s. With current proposals for Clontarf, Warrenpoint and Dún Laoghaire Baths, are we ready to take the plunge or are they destined to remain seashore antiquities? Taking the Waters While swimming in the sea has always exercised atavistic appeal for humans (and dogs), it was during the eighteenth century that sea bathing became particularly popular and  fashionable. Sea bathing was seen as beneficial to  health, in much the same way as taking the waters was at spas in Lisdoonvarna and Mallow. The earliest designated bathing spots were recorded on Rocque’s 1756 map, for men and women, at Salthill near Monkstown as well as a bathhouse on Killiney Beach. The increased popularity of sea-bathing during the eighteenth century saw many towns in Ireland and Britain develop as resort towns frequented by the upper classes during the summer months. While the south coast of Dublin benefited from an impressive sandy expanse, a disadvantage was the shallowness of the shoreline and the fact that at low tide, the water receded for a distance of as much as two miles. Certain locations along the coast, such as the Forty Foot at Sandycove, were prized for the fact that they were largely unaffected by the tides. The best-known sea-bathing places of today were established by the railway companies to encourage coastal businesses. The construction of the Dublin to Kingstown (Dún Laoghaire) line saw the closure of the baths at Booterstown and Blackrock, as the bathing huts there were now cut off from the sea by the railway, which ran along an embankment across the shallow bay. While the arrival of the railway did spell the end for some bathing spots, it opened up other parts of the coast for bathing. Man-made baths became increasingly popular during the nineteenth century with the earliest sea-bath or ‘lido’ (an Italian word for beach, bespeaking elegance and cosmopolitan excitement) erected in 1833 at Lymington in Hampshire, England. The bathing pools at Clontarf, Sandymount and Dún Laoghaire all followed the style of the Lymington baths. Significant for their maritime heritage and 20th century maritime recreation tradition.       Bathing in Blackrock As early as 1754 a proposal was put forward to build a bathing place at Blackrock. When the Dublin and Kingstown railway was opened in 1834 Blackrock was the principal village between the termini. The Blackrock Promenade and Pier Company Ltd decided to establish “a promenade Pier and suitable Bathing Place for the residents in the locality and for the use of the public at a point near Blackrock Railway Station”.  This followed public outcry that access to the sea had been cut off with the building of the Railway line. The baths were completed by 1839 and a special integrated train ticket also permitted entrance to them. In 1887 the baths were rebuilt in concrete with a large gentlemen’s bath and a smaller ladies’ bath to the designs of architect and engineer William Kaye-Parry. In 1928, the Urban District Council bought the Blackrock baths for £2,000 and readied them for the Tailteann Games, a Celtic Olympics. The baths, with a 50-metre, eight-lane pool, were well known for their swimming galas and water polo and could accommodate up to 1,000 spectators.  They boasted dramatic 10m and 3m springboards, as well as two smaller children’s pools. The decline in use of the baths started in the late 1950s when indoor heated swimming pools started to appear in hotels and local authority facilities. Dún Laoghaire Corporation closed the Blackrock Baths to the public in 1987. The Leinster branch of the Irish Water Polo Association made private use of the pools, diligently carrying out extensive cleaning and repair work to make the baths usable again after a year of exposure to the sea – but succumbing to the need to withdraw the 10m diving platform from use for safety reasons. At this point, the estimated running losses for a summer season were £10-30k, depending on admission fees. By 1992, due to lack of maintenance, parts of the baths were dismantled. In 1997 they were sold by Pembroke estates holdings to developers Treasury Holdings who failed to get planning permission for a shopping mall encompassing the baths site and DART station in 2001. An earlier (and greedier) redevelopment proposal  which came from a council ‘ideas’ competition in 1999 comprised 54 apartments and a restaurant with retail and leisure facilities. In 2013, the baths were demolished due to safety concerns following a routine inspection by Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council. It was found that the diving platform had been significantly corroded and detached from the pool base. However, the bay in Blackrock is still used for swimming and board sailing.       Sandymount Swim Another massive seawater baths was built at Sandymount, designed by Frederick Morley, and erected as the Merrion Pier, Promenade and Baths in 1863. The baths did not operate all year round but  were usually open from late May until September. Serviced by both tram and rail it became very popular. 33,000 bathers used the facility at its height over the summer of 1890, splashing around in fresh seawater baths and reveling in ancillary pleasures such as music and refreshments. However, frequent ablution was not within the grasp of the unwashed poor. The Irish builder in 1863 noted that the  cost of admittance was well beyond what a labourer could afford, particularly if accompanied by his wife and children. It noted that these bathers ‘were compelled to shelter themselves in a [communal] bathing box close by with the scum of society…and were supplied with ragged garments called “bathing dresses” at

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