The Odd Couple

British architecture throughout the 1980's was pretty much a straight fight between high-tech and postmodernism. Nicholas Grimshaw (High-Tech Athletic) and Terry Farrell (Po-Mo Allstars) were two of the architects slugging it out. Strangely enough though they had once been in partnership together. Their fifteen year collaboration (1965-1980) fell apart due to obvious stylistic differences but the fact that the two had worked together at all suggests an area of unlikely common ground. This offers a glimpse of another route that British architecture could have taken after the 1960's, one unfortunately snuffed out by the belligerent arguments of the time.

Grimshaw's refined industrial aesthetic and Farrell's postmodern eclecticism seem irreconcilable when viewed today. But Farrell's autobiography Place suggests areas where they came together. The most obvious of these was the idea of flexibility in buildings. This was a key concept coming out of the '60's when there was a fascination with temporary/lightweight structures, allied to non-hierarchical ideas of spatial and social organisation.

For Grimshaw, this meant buildings that were literally flexible; sophisticated mechanisms that could move and change over time. The Grimshaw camp within the partnership developed a sequence of supposedly repeatable and adaptable metal framed office buildings. Farrell's notion of flexibility was less aesthetically driven. He was interested in adaptable buildings too, but crucially it was the people and the function that could change, rather than the buildings themselves. For Farrell, this approach encompassed existing terrace houses and semi d's, as well as industrial lofts and old factory buildings. This idea of revitalising existing buildings through adaptive re-use led to Farrell becoming an early unlikely hero of the conservation movement.



These two tangents were fused in the iconic conversion of a Victorian terrace into student housing that they completed at Sussex Gardens in 1968. The project involved a clever spatial re-modelling of the existing houses as well as the addition of several pre-fabricated elements including a spiralling external tower of bathroom pods. Internally they designed movable furniture to colonise the hollowed out interior of the terrace. This project imaginatively re-used existing buildings but its investigations into prefabrication and a clip-on aesthetic got most of the attention.



Some ten years later Farrell taught a unit at the AA called Learning from Chigwell, where the students looked at Essex bungalows and semi d's for clues about successful housing (This sort of populism must have been even more crashingly unfashionable then than it is now). Farrell's own adaptations of his family's Maida Vale house were a modest version of the same investigations. The drawings for this are sweetly un-architectural, devoid of the usual spatial gymnastics or obsessive detailing that architects inflict on their families.



The interior of Farrell and Grimshaw's own offices shows the evolution of their ideas. Place has two photos; one of their joint office and another of the same space reconfigured by Farrell after the split. The earlier one is an endearingly 1970's interior; all acid oranges and brown plastic, with flexible service tubes running to individual work stations. Farrell rejigs it with kitsch surfaces and postmodern spatial illusions but retains the metal service tubes which now protrude from marble effect columns. Filing cabinets are piled up into ziggurats and garden trellising used to divide space. This is typical of the odd hybrid of high tech devices and pop classical references which Farrell pursued for a number of years subsequently.



His two temporary buildings for Clifton nurseries are the most interesting results of this fusion. The most well-known of these briefly occupied a corner of Covent Garden. Its famous temple-like front sat on a visual axis with Inigo Jones' St Paul's Church at the opposite end of the square, although half its portico was in fact a skeletal 'ghost' concealing a car park. This fragmented classical pediment fronted a lightweight tensile roof structure and an impermanent function making the classical elements poignant rather than bombastic.

If the building's slightly clunky classicism seems a bit stale today then his other nursery for Clifton still seems highly relevant. This was a polycarbonate clad greenhouse - an extruded tree shape in section - where any hint of classicism was subsumed into the cartoon pop aesthetic. The building has a lyrical DIY quality, echoing some of Frank Gehry's early Lo-fi experimentalism.



Less known well was the giant exhibition hall he designed as the temporary replacement for the burnt down Alexandra Palace. This giant shed combines high-tech materials, Archigram-esque clip-together curves and Pop Art super-graphics. It's a lovely building, a sort of super stylised Edwardiana, reminiscent of Ken Adam's eccentric sets for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.



Farrell and Grimshaw's most successful buildings was the aluminium clad Park Road flats near Regent's Park. The building used a slick, lightweight aesthetic that contrasted radically at the time with the contemporaneous Brutalist flats being built at Alexandra Road and the Brunswick Centre. More interesting are the photos of the interiors of Farrell and Grimshaw's own penthouse apartments in the building. The fact that they lived in adjacent penthouses at all is perhaps a sign of the times, reminiscent of The Beatles in Help, although their respective interiors are radically different. While Grimshaw's is straight architect pad chic, Farrell's is full of Victorian furniture, patterned rugs and a parrot in an ornate cage.



In fact, the interiors of Farrell's various houses are amongst the most interesting pieces of design in his book. Some of them are incredibly odd, featuring Egyptian columns, trompe d'oeil ceilings, antique furniture and tiger skin rugs. They have a gloomy, intensely decorated Victorian quality that must have been fabulously unfashionable for the time.



Although Farrell was seen as the defector, swept off into Jencksian postmodernism, he was arguably the one that developed the partnership's work into interesting new directions. Grimshaw's subsequent work, all precision gaskets and tension cables, developed along more predictable lines. The industrial sheds have a certain elegance, but the obsession with gadgets and mechanics seems oddly irrelevant now. His Camden Town Sainsbury's, while falling short of something like the Lloyd's buildings icy perfectionism, doesn't pull off contextual urbanism either.

The first part of Farrell's autobiography stops at 1982, which is about right for me. The slide into a straighter, more commercial postmodernism in the mid '80's means that interest begins to pall. The earlier work walks a more ambiguous, genre blurring line, fusing elements of '60's radicalism, classicism, pop art, high tech and the vernacular.

(All pictures are taken from here. Slightly outrageously without permission. Oh well.)

Urban Clearway

In 1975, or thereabouts, a Ford Anglia drove into the side of my parent's car. Fortunately no-one was seriously hurt but I have had mixed feelings about them ever since. The picture above - which paints the car in an altogether more charming light - is taken from a collection of photographs of Ford's Dagenham factory on the Guardian website (More here...).

The huge Dagenham works, which were built on reclaimed marshland along the edge of the Thames in the early 1930's, stopped car production in 2002, although lorry engines and gearboxes are still made there. The factory's hinterland consists of swathes of houses built for its former workers which, along the gloomy vastness of the river itself, now form part of the mysterious Thames Gateway regeneration project.



All of which is a long way from the suburban dreams of mobility represented in the photo at the top of this post, or even the heroic industrialism of the one above. Today, even in factories where they are produced, cars accumulate in unsold lots, like the Nissans photographed below in a driver-less traffic jam on the company's test track: a bleakly comic image of entropy.


(Image via)

Books and Architecture

One of the reasons for FAT's flirtation (I was going to say interest, but that implies dry academicism, rather than a love that dare not speak its name) with architectural post modernism is the fact that for a number of years we only bought architecture books from the remainder book shop on Islington's Upper Street.

The shop operated on a ten year lag, selling end of print copies of once fashionable architectural theory that had fallen out of favour. At the time - the mid to late 1990's - this mainly meant Architecture Design specials on Post Modernism, Rizzoli monographs on Charles Moore and James Wines and - slightly beyond the pale even for our depraved tastes - Michael Graves. Along with a book on the wooden architecture of Russia and an anonymous collection of gothic drawings, these formed our principle influences. High on this toxic mix of the unfashionable and the unspeakable we thought we had chanced upon a little corner of architecture that we could call our own. Certainly no one else wanted it.



The Rem Koolhaas and Bernard Tschumi books stayed on our office shelves (alongside, for some reason, Jane's Fighting Ships and a book on the Hungerford massacre), their supposed radicalism appearing suddenly pallidly tasteful compared to architectural apostates like Stanley Tigerman and Ricardo Bofill We discovered something else too, which is that if you stop looking at the same stuff as everyone else, strange things happen to your architecture. Most obviously it stops looking like everyone elses' architecture.

The relationship between fashion and architecture is a thorny one. Reference to it usually involves formal analogies between cladding and clothing, or, more literally still, collaborations between architects and fashion designers. Very rarely are the fashion cycles within architecture itself considered. Architecture is generally considered to be above such things, aloof in its timelessness from ephemeral preoccupations and trivial matters of style. This aloofness is slightly absurd, only serving to draw attention to an underlying anxiety. There is nothing as troubling as the recently fashionable, nothing so unwanted or dangerous to one's self belief. Fashion works as a form of Orwellian un-think, a cultural amnesia that allows us to believe that the present is infinitely preferable to the past, always has been and always will. I wear skinny jeans. I will always wear skinny jeans. Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia.



At any one time various theoretical and formal trends seem to push a number of people in the same direction at once. At architecture school for instance, there are always a small number of books that change hands feverishly, forming a closed circuit of influences until they fall out of favour. Mark Cousins gave a lecture at the Architectural Association once where he observed the impact this process had on the school library. For a while all the books by Deleuze and Guatarri would be out on loan and then, suddenly, they were all back and everyone was borrowing books on bird migration and wave formation.

In my local library there are no books by Deleuze and Guattari and only a couple on wave formation. The architecture section is bracingly random and contains nothing published within the last five years. Unlike the remainder book store it doesn't represent the fag end of a particular point in time either. It is in fact a potentially richer experience, one that could take you in any number of unexpected directions. Like only buying clothes from a slightly ageing mail order catalogue a certain idiosyncrasy of style is guaranteed.

I've been going there a lot lately, mainly to expand my Robert Wyatt collection, but the architecture and design section is a new joy to me. This is what I've read so far: a book on the early work of Philip Johnson, some Pevsner, a dictionary of architectural styles that ends at the Neue Sacklikeit, a Shell guide to ruined monastries and Terry Farrel's autobiography. Very little on parametric modelling basically. Next week I'm hoping to check out Elizabethan building techniques and the history of Playboy. Coupled with watching Doctor Who and the Pyramids of Mars and listening to this, the implications for architecture, as my old tutor used to say, are endless.