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| My in-situ sketch of Nasser's House in Churet, Iran. 2015 |
"in my deserted home village
the old cherry tree
now in bloom"
–
Haiku by Issa
First Draft: What I Talk About, When I Talk About Unarchitecture
Coining
terms is one thing, and getting them accepted is another. So when I first made
up the word “un-Architecture”, I wasn’t pretty sure if it made any sense
outside my mind – and the minds of the NAAM team of course. But when the
submissions started to roll in [for the 3rd issue of NAAM / published Feb 2016], I felt relieved with the connection that a
number of people from different parts of the world had found with this word. Yet,
here I feel the urge to clarify some points about “un-architecture”.
Un-architecture
is not a term only limited to rural areas. But let me begin from another point
of departure: un-architecture is not the opposite of architecture. If it
was so, then we would have probably named it “anti-architecture”, but that’s
not the case. Just as architecture is derived from architect (originally from
Ancient Greek “ἀρχιτέκτων”, arkhitéktōn, “master builder”), un-architecture is
similarly derived from un-architect; and for that matter, “un-master builder”.
Defining
un-master builder could be really tricky, but let’s take a simple, yet
practical approach. Simply put, when people outside the realms of architecture
(or people who do not carry the professional badge of ‘architect’) actually
build something, then that is un-architecture. An un-master builder creates
un-architecture, as a substitute for architecture, when it’s absent. As a
result, it’s going to serve the same ends as architecture; aesthetically,
structurally, functionally and even ethically. And its product, just like any
work of architecture, could be good or bad, beautiful or horrible, efficient or
dysfunctional and so on. So now I think it’s pretty clear why un-architecture
is not only about rural areas. In every city, in every corner of the world –
and particularly in developing countries – there are hundreds of buildings
being built every day that are mere examples of un-architecture.
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| Churet, Northern Iran. 2015. |
Second Draft: A Call for Real Design
Remote rural areas are usually romanticized, especially when
seen from a maintained distance. All those tiny houses in a beautiful setting
are almost like a Tahitian landscape painting by Gaugin; evoking the very
exotic feel that mesmerizes an outsider. But inside, things are a bit
different. The beautiful scenery is defragmented and now houses are lonely
units, with inhabitants who really don’t care much for them. The exact same thing
happens when we look at those rural areas from a chronological perspective.
They are again romanticized as souvenirs of a vernacular tradition. Yet again,
with a closer look, we can see villagers who feel dissatisfied with their share
of the modern world.
This, though, is not a plea for modernization of villages.
The problem is not that villages are boring or outdated per se; but actually
it’s that, despite the fact that architecture writers and scholars love to
constantly label rural houses as vernacular, sustainable and valuable, the
villagers themselves don’t seem to see the point – and I think they might be
right. They seem to be unable of building an aesthetical bond with their built
environment, while the functional bond is already damaged. Their houses are
often old and need thoroughgoing renovations, but these people are mostly poor
and incapable of doing so. In the meantime, since they are not educated about
their cultural heritage and architecture (or un-architecture), and while they
see that their houses don’t function well, they miss any promised aesthetical
point about their village and surroundings.
The educational
system and the media in these areas are the same as the cities, so there is no
mention of local and regional values while they also bombard the villagers with
fake glittering images from urban life. But the intrusion is not only limited
to some ‘glittering images’. The development and renovation programs and
masterplans are initially designed to help these areas, but in fact they only
add up to the problem. In the name of structural reinforcement, all the
vernacular and local methods and technics are dismissed, and in the name of
infrastructural development, the rural fabric is torn unmercifully. And the
result is a village with worn-out slums and newly-built ugly brick shoeboxes as
houses.
On the other hand,
another common approach is to expect that villages must be left untouched and
eventually turned into large museums. To be honest, this is very selfish. It’s
a direct product of our urban egotism; as people in the city, we think that the
lives of the villagers are secondary to ours, and so who cares about the
quality of real life in the villages? The only important thing is to have a
nice untouched holiday destination with an exotic twist.
But for people in
the village, there is more to it than an unmarked adventure destination for an
occasional city break on the pages of a cool travel guide, or a map on the desk
of a master-planner to whom the people of the village are nothing more than
numbers and statistics.
It’s time for real
design; small-scale schemes that have real impacts. Young architects and
designers should step in. Why should children in these so-called under-privileged areas go to schools that
are only nasty boxes which cement has leaked from every hole on their walls,
and look out of unfitted rusty windows that are tucked into them? Why should ‘design’
be a luxury? Why should villagers live in houses that are only a shelter
but not a home? – And thus, little by little lose their sense of a good
living environment.
Instead, NGOs could go to rural areas and start a local practice to
design and renovate buildings in villages (e.g. look at “Tibet’s Heritage” in
this issue); or to educate people, particularly children, about their living
environment (e.g. look at “Abnabat”). Universities could collaborate with
architectural firms and villagers to build houses for their village (look at
“Malur Farmer House”); and believe me, a pig-barn could be designed so fine
that it’s more beautiful than whatever your firm has ever designed (look at
“Bamboo Pig Barn”). And well, you don’t need to be Mother Theresa to go and
design in rural areas; designing in villages is actually a very good opportunity
for designers to show off their creativity by doing less than what they have to
do in the city; an opportunity that perhaps in the wake of sustainable design
on the one hand, and cities overflowing with architecture on the other hand,
might shine brighter.
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| My in-situ plan drawing of Nasser's House, Churet, Iran. 2015 |
Third Draft: Nasser, the Master Un-master Builder
Last April [this piece was written in Fall 2015], on a
trip to lesser-known rural areas of northern Iran, my three friends and I
decided to conclude our journey with a visit to “Churet” – at the end of a
backroad, on top of a mountain, forking from the road from Sari to Kiasar. Like
many other villages, Churet was gorgeous in a panorama, and not so pleasant in
a close-up. But just as we passed across the only grocery store of the village
with a group of sunburnt old men standing and chatting in front of it, we
turned right into a cul-de-sac. That’s where we met Nasser and his wife and
their home.
It was a simple
rural house that we learned Nasser had designed and built to its finest
details. He even explained to us some of his future plans for its extension and
maintenance. Everything was designed and predicted with the precision of a clock.
But Nasser was no clockmaker, nor was he an architect; in fact he was a
65-year-old retired truck driver who was now making up for the time he hadn’t
spent in the village, mostly around his self-built house. The cul-de-sac was
actually a very short one; two houses on each side, and at the end of it was a
green slope covered with tall trees Nasser claimed he had planted himself. His
house was at the end of the cul-de-sac, on the left. He said that he had built
it 40 years ago, and he was thrilled that we were surveying the architecture of
rural areas. It seemed somehow that he had been waiting all those 40 years to
discuss his oeuvre with someone who cared.
Between his house
and the one facing his – which belonged to his brother – was enough space to
park two or three cars, and right on the edge of the crag, there was a washing
stone. Nasser had made a short bar on the ground to make sure that the soapy washing
water doesn’t go to the trees below.
From there, we
walked up three four stairs, and entered onto a somewhat large patio, over
which Nasser’s old Maple trees shaded pleasantly. He gave us a lecture on the
advantages of broad-leaved trees and the calculations he had done to guarantee
that they provided the desired shade over the patio in summer to refine and
cool the air.
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| Wooden window. Nasser's House, Churet, Iran. 2015 |
Then Nasser took us inside
and showed us the beautiful wooden coverings of the walls and the ceiling, and
the window frames and the wooden niche he had crafted carefully. He told us
over and over again that although the house is 40 years old, not a single spot
of it is eaten by termite, because in winters he sets fire and sends the smoke
behind the walls and inside the ceiling. He couldn’t stop talking. He was
planning to build a new paving for the parking space, and a new toilet for his
wife and himself; he was spotting where to plant some additional trees and what
kinds they should be. There was so much going on in his head.
Nasser was a master
un-architect.
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| Nasser. 2015 |
This piece was originally published in NAAM #3 "[un]architecture: Rural Areas" Feb 2016.
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