Each for a low low price of only €39.95. Collect all 19! (g)
Each for a low low price of only €39.95. Collect all 19! (g)
Now for the less-appealing side of Wersten. While innocently bicycling down the Kölner Landstrasse, I was confronted with perhaps the ugliest goddamn building I have ever seen. Not intentionally ugly, as in Brutalism, but unintentionally ugly, as in whoever designed it despised humans and wanted to actively make them suffer.
Which is true, since the building was originally a bunker (g) built by the National Socialists.
What we're dealing with is a two-story L-shaped building, probably about 3 stories tall, with a sheer stone facade with almost no windows. There is a copper roof with dormer windows set in irregular intervals, and strange barred windows, surrounded by bays of dark stone, placed seemingly at random. The entrance is, for some reason, painted a lively orange and white:
I suspected at first this might be a bunker. Like most German cities, Düsseldorf has many bunkers left over from World War II. They're 3 stories tall and made out of solid concrete. In many cases, it's extremely expensive or impossible to get rid of them, because the explosive force needed to blow through meters of solid concrete would irreparably damage other buildings nearby. Some can be dismantled, but it's painstaking work and usually creates major disruptions in the neighborhood and many complaints by nearby homeowners. The city or state sometimes tries to get rid of the bunkers but local neighborhood opposition gets in the way. So the bunker in my neighborhood, Bilk, still stands, with its annoying mural. One Düsseldorf bunker has even been turned into a church.
This bunker, like so many others, has a fascinating history. According to this article (g), a pair of German artists moved into the bunker in the mid-1980s, which is pretty common. Bunkers make good studios. The city of Düsseldorf granted the artists a lease. This is what Germans call Kulturpolitik: official state support for independent creative artists. The two artists created their studio inside the bunker, and presumably had cultural events there as well. Robbe has invested 70,000 Euro in renovations.Apparently, the bunker at some time officially became the property of the Bima, the Federal Ministry for Real Estate.
This video from August 2012 gives you an idea of what the place looked like. Six artists had studios there at that time:
Then, nearly 30 years later, the Bima announced it had enough. It ordered the city of Düsseldorf to cancel the lease to the two artists by 30 September 2012. The Bima wants to build 'high-quality condos' on the spot. (Wersten is a working-class neighborhood where 50% of the children are on welfare). The artists fought the eviction notice in court. While that was ongoing, a construction firm began ripping the roof off the place, allowing rain and bird-droppings to flood the studio (g). The spokesman for the Bima is annoyed. The artists were supposed to have moved out by September 2012, they didn't, now somebody wants to buy the property. The artists obtained an injunction to stop this work. Apparently the parties were trying to work out a settlement as of early 2013.
I can't find any more recent news about this contretempts since that time. But from the look of the photographs, nothing much is happening in the former artists' bunker...
Zwingburg (g) is a German word made out of the root of the verb zwingen (to force or coerce) and Burg (fortress).
It is a fortress or castle or citadel erected in a prominent place in areas in which (to quote the German Wikipedia article), the local residents were considered 'insufficiently loyal' to whatever feudal lord owned the country. The design is purposely menacing, the building says 'I am your Lord. This ugly-ass fortress is full of lust-crazed Swabian mercenaries who will stream through your defenseless villages and daughters unless you show me unswerving obedience, reechy-necked lickspittles.'
It's a very Tscherman thing.
I thought of this word when I took a short bicycle ride through the Hafen (harbor) area in Düsseldorf last weekend. Back in the 90s, the city fathers decided to raze most of the existing port infrastructure on the Rhine as it fell into disuse and create a sexy, stylish area full of trendy boutiques, fashion houses, lux hotels, hip bars, and other hangouts for lawyers, lobbyists, advertising executives and other wan, dead-eyed parasites pillars of the local economy. They called it the Medienhafen (Media Harbor).
On a huge promontory in the middle of the Medienhafen stands the Düsseldorf Hyatt Regency Hotel (g), glowering menacingly at the rest of the city:
Hyatt. We're watching you.
I've recently moved offices, so as I set up my new crucible of habitual effectiveness (ha!) I've been looking for something to edutain me in the background. That's when I stumbled upon Gresham College's free lecture series, which started in 1597 and has been online since 1721.
Here are two most edifying lectures, one on the medieval hospital, one on the creation of illuminated manuscripts. Both are delivered in flawless received pronunciation by immaculately-coiffed English -- well, I want to say MILFs, but that's just the Yank crudeness in me. Let's call them gentlewomen.
Berlin, they say, is being overrun by Swabians. 'Swabian', one of the most amusing words in English, denotes people from Swabia, a region in South Germany. According to native Berliners, the Swabians are industrious, conformist yuppies. Above, you see the work of extremist Swabians, who have changed street signs into their (IMHO totally awesome) regional dialect. Under their baleful influence, Berlin is rapidly changing from a place where cafes serve breakfast until 4 PM to unwashed, still-hungover 'creative types' into yet another safe, sanitized, mind-shatteringly expensive, tourist-friendly playground for the upper-middle classes and above (you know, like New York, Paris, and London).
Those parts of Berlin which have suffered an unusually heavy infestation of Swabians are often referred to as Schwabylon, derived from the short-a German word for Swabians. Which brings me to the subject of this post. There once was an actual Schwabylon! The Voices of East Anglia describes it thus:
The colourful Schwabylon shopping and leisure centre had one hundred shops, a cinema, twelve restaurants, a beer garden, sports facilities, Roman spa, sauna, solarium, swimming pool and a skating rink. Located next door was a Holiday Inn which contained a three-story nightclub named after The Beatles song Yellow Submarine, which was surrounded by a 600,000 litre water tank with more than 30 sharks – What could possibly go wrong?
Schwabylon is a portmanteau word that blended together the name of the district in Munich, Germany and the word Babylon. The pyramid shaped shopping centre with it’s bright red, yellow and orange rising sun paint work was designed by architect Justus Dahinde and opened for business on November 9th in 1973.
Although the centre had many attractions it was (almost) windowless and had ramps instead of stairs, and just fourteen months later the retailers “shut up shop” and the Schwabylon closed. Parts of the building were demolished in 1979, however the Holiday Inn and night club remained – Minus the sharks.
Reminded me of something...
Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer is dead at 104. He was heavily influenced by Le Corbusier, who I hold to be one of the most sinister intellectual frauds of the 20th century. Le Corbusier was principally responsible for the mid-century fad of brutalism, which encouraged architects to compose buildings from giant, prefabricated slabs of untreated reinforced concrete. No attempt would be made integrate the buildings into existing city or landscapes. They would be plopped down like the used, soiled Legos of a race of alien giants.
In the hands of talented architects, brutalist buildings might occasionally display deeply obscured hints of elegance or wit. In the hands of hordes of epigones (and budget-conscious city planners), brutalism resulted in a plague of anonymous, inhuman bunkers that quickly crusted over with mold and rust stains. In other words, Brutalism brought the charm and elegance of Stalinist industrial encampments to Western capitals. Here's a quick quiz: Is this sad, stained, crumbling structure the Great Hall of the Democratic People's Assembly in some Eastern European country, or is it a priory in France?
Le Corbusier’s influence came about as much through his writings as through anything he built—perhaps more. His mode of writing is disjointed, without apparent logical structure, aphoristic, and with frequent resort to the word “must,” as if no sentient being with an IQ over 50 could or would argue with what he says. Drawings and photos often accompany his writing, but sometimes so cryptically in relation to the text that the reader begins to doubt his own powers of comprehension: he is made to think that he is reading a book by someone on a completely different—higher—intellectual plane. Architecture becomes a sacred temple that hoi polloi may not enter.
André Wogenscky of the Fondation Le Corbusier, prefacing an anthology of Le Corbusier’s writings, claims that his master’s words are not measurable by normal means: “We cannot simply understand the books; we have to surrender to them, resonate, in the acoustical sense, with their vibrations, the ebb and flow of his thinking.” The passage brings to mind what the poet Tyutchev said about Russia: one had to believe in it because no one could measure it with his mind. In approaching Le Corbusier in this mystical fashion, Wogenscky is, in practice, bowing down to a peculiarly vengeful god: namely, reinforced concrete, Le Corbusier’s favorite material.
...Le Corbusier’s language reveals his disturbingly totalitarian mind-set. For example, in what is probably his most influential book, the 1924 Towards a New Architecture (the very title suggests that the world had been waiting for him), he writes poetically:
We must create a mass-production state of mind:
A state of mind for building mass-production housing.
A state of mind for living in mass-production housing.
A state of mind for conceiving mass-production housing.
Who are these “we” of whom he speaks so airily, responsible for creating, among other things, universal states of mind? Only one answer is possible: Le Corbusier and his disciples (of whom there were, alas, to be many).
Now, Niemeyer's not in the same league. Although influenced by Le Corbusier, he was capable of designing buildings of beauty (the headquarters of the PCF, for example). But he has to take responsibility for the inhuman monstrosity that is Brasilia, a sprawling wasteland of rectilinear concrete slapped down in the middle of the jungle. Its residents scurry for cover amid its gigantic, broiling public squares. And Brasilia's here to stay, since it was quickly added to the UN's list of World Heritage Sites, which is a very good reason not to take that list very seriously.
By Austrian Werner Reiterer. His sketch:
...which raises the question: where's the megaphone? And what would it have played? My choice: The Blue Danube, over and over, at 150db.