Radisson Blu Makes Her Debut In Expectant Cebu

Institutions, according to a very accessible but reliable source, are “any structure or mechanism of social order and cooperation governing the behavior of a set of individuals within a given human community.” Furthermore, they are associated with “purpose and permanence,” as well as customs and behavioral patterns important to society.

We have a lot of them, from the honorable high benches at Padre Faura, to the yummy hamburgers once unfairly suspected of having worms as extenders. The current set of men in black robes, as far as I am concerned, have yet to earn their claim to permanence and transcendence, but the burgers with the bumble bee mascot, without a doubt, have long won a place in the hearts of the millions of Pinoys around the world who troop to the jolly fast-food joint with their families.

One Filipino institution, however, beats even the burgers in governing Pinoy behavior—the lechon de leche. A whole suckling pig marinated in secret potions and roasted over a bed of live coals, this cardiac delight is king of the Filipino feast table. All other dishes are subordinate to it, and encircle the king like entranced shamans adoring a fire.

Another institution is the venerable SM, or Shoe Mart to the dinosaurs. From retail, they have ventured to banking, property development, manufacturing, toys and, now, hotels and conventions. From among the spread of developments by the SM Group, rolls out the Radisson Blu Hotel, the queen of the SM Group’s leisure and hospitality inventory—in no less than in lechon country, Cebu. I paid a visit to the hotel to find out for myself whether the Radisson Blu would intoxicate me like lechon at a fiesta. (I love comparing places to food I like.)

Radisson Blu Cebu, from my interview with the general manager Grant Gaskin, is the first luxury hotel of the Carlson Hotel Group in the Asia-Pacific. “Blu” is their luxury brand that differentiates the property from the rest of their three-star line-up. Blue, as opposed to other colors, connotes sophistication and prestige. So says Gaskin, who wears a lapel pin that says, “Yes, we can!”, the service philosophy of the hotel chain.

From the latest campaign of the SM Group that is advertised on television, and Gaskin’s lapel pin slogan, it is easy to see where the service philosophies of the two corporations intersect. Both agree strongly on the concept of value for money—the most bang for your buck. SM and Carlson both believe that comfort and quality are reachable. Second, both insist that quality service be straightforward and unembellished. We surely know that from our long relationship with the straightforward, functional and uncomplicated SM Malls.

This quality—the purity and simplicity of the offering—is what makes the lechon a blockbuster hit with anyone who has savored its goodness, including world-renowned chef and TV personality Anthony Bourdain. And this is what Carlson has set out to prove to Cebuanos and its visitors about Radisson Blu, the first Blu Radisson in Asia.

The hotel has a collection of 400 guest rooms, from the well-appointed standard suites and   spacious business class suites to the swanky presidential suite. All rooms and common front-of-house areas were design by Singaporean interior design firm KKS International. Just as lechon was ‘Cebuanized’ with pandan grass filling and local spices, so has the contemporary Peninsular Asian style of KKS been ‘Cebuanized’ with reed, coral, bamboo and mother of pearl on resin decorative wall and ceiling panels. A large order of the furniture naturally came from Cebu manufacturers. The result: a certain controlled organic look that is constant throughout the hotel.

The architecture too is simple and straightforward. The building is composed of only a massive plinth and an even more massive vertical slab that towers over the Metro Cebu skyline.

Rising almost 100 meters from reclaimed ground, the building was erected about ten years ago, around the time the economy was still reeling from the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis. The building was originally intended for the Sheraton Group, but the project was shelved, as tourism prospects grew bleak in the late 1990s. The building shell reached completion but remained hollow for years. People who have visited Cebu in the first decade of the new millennium will remember it as a massive, abandoned gray hulk that one passed on the way to the city center from Mactan Airport.

Things changed last year when interior construction finally started. The project was completed in record time, as if to make up for its long dormancy, and was celebrated with a grand opening early this year, under the high-end Carlson brand.

Gaskin admits that since the building was designed and built according to Sheraton’s operational template, Carlson had to make some changes to the original plans. The most important revision is the conversion of almost all the planned restaurants into function rooms. To pursue the five themed restaurants that Sheraton made provision for would have been madness, what with SM’s humongous mall with its vast selection of restaurants and food outlets right beside the hotel.

Like the cholesterol that always comes with partaking of lechon however much you attempt to cook healthy, the Sheraton template left a permanent legacy of excess on the architecture of today’s Radisson Blu. The building was designed in the style of hotel developments of the 1990s—large and in-your-face.  In an age of energy conservation and concern for sustainability, the scale of Radisson Blu’s interiors borders on the scandalous. The grand (this is an understatement) lobby is four storeys high. It is four times as wide as it is tall, and twice as long as it is wide. I suspect that two G6s can fit in it.

According to Gaskin, there were proposals to subdivide the lobby into several income-generating spaces, but grand old man Henry Sy would have none of it. He loved the enormity of it, and the pure and utter extravagance that all that space represented. This project was extra-special, he said, and it would be different from all the rest of the SM Group’s properties.

This is a stark departure from the SM norm that has over the years systematically converted “spaces of delight” into “spaces of function” (and income generation) in SM malls. Compared with the other city hotels in Cebu, the Radisson Blu does indeed possess the most impressive lobby, reminiscent of that of the grand dame of Makati, the Peninsula Manila, but a lot more assertive.

There is no way to compute for its return on investment, but Gaskin swears it is the excessive ‘waste’ of space in the lobby that brings in a lot of business—from folks who patronize the lobby bar until the wee hours of the morning; to couples who book the ballroom for wedding receptions so that they can get photographed at the lobby’s grand staircase. Then there are the guests who like being able to go down to an airport hangar for a lobby as a change of scenery from their rooms. They keep coming back, making Radisson Blu the hotel with the highest occupancy rate in Cebu since six months of opening.

My favorite part of the lechon is the balat (skin) that turns crispy golden brown when roasted just right. It is to die for—literally—as men have been known to get into gunfights over this most prized portion of the piglet. It is the pièce de résistance in a pièce de résistance itself. For me, Feria, the only restaurant of the hotel, is undeniably the defining amenity of Radisson Blu. Not only because I indulged in memorable sorbets and cheesecakes in its embrace, but also because the interior design here speaks of Cebu like no other place in the hotel.

The restaurant ceiling is four meters high, and appointed with local finishes of coiled bamboo, wrought iron, local wood and granite. In the middle of the large space, a lattice of bamboo and iron circles defines a central bandstand where guests of import are entertained. The furniture pieces are obviously sugbu-made from the look and quality of the workmanship alone. The overall design articulation is indeed Cebu without trying too hard.

We adore lechon. Its flavors are part of our national consciousness. Our celebrations and milestones would not be complete without it. It is excessive and indulgent, but straightforward, honest and pure at the same time. It is a Filipino institution—the king of our fiestas. Radisson Blu was created with the same formula. She just might be the queen that Cebu has long been waiting for.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 05, 2011. Photographs by Ed Simon.

What Counts In One Tycoon’s Vacation Home

My good father always told me that I could do only one thing best. No two objects may occupy the same space simultaneously. As man can serve only one master, so it is with the arts and architecture. For me, science reigns supreme in architecture. Art and commerce are its supports. I frown at architecture that falls victim to the caprices of mood and fashion. I glare at architecture that is prostitute to the dictates of commerce.

Enter my editor. She calls me a design snob.  She assigns me to write about a residence owned by one of the members of the country’s business elite. The patriarch of the family is the master of masters of commerce in this country. His empire grew solely from his razor-sharp business acumen—he inherited no fortune from his parents, or family connections. If he were appointed Secretary of Finance, the Philippines would be catapulted to first world status in no time at all. We would be a nation of brilliant traders telling the world that we’ve got it all for you.

My assignment was a lesson in what happens when business and design meet: the business of architecture. Located in one of the most exclusive mountain enclaves in the country, the house conceals itself from plain view by perching itself on a ravine with only the flat roof of the garage visible from the street. The architect, a master of the business of architecture himself, used the concept of folding plates, with the spaces generated within the folds comprising the house itself. It is a simple, long rectangle of a house, with PVC framed glass windows at the façade facing the mountains, and slit windows on CHB walls facing the road, but below the street level.

The folded plates form a stretched, stylized “S” clad in steel spandrel strips pre-painted to look like wood. The lower concave of the “S” contains the public areas like the living room, dining room, two kitchens and the maid’s quarters. When viewed from outside, the long row of rooms, each delineated by sliding glass doors framed in aluminum, remind me of a series of showrooms. The upper concave has the private areas: four identical bedrooms, a master bedroom, toilets and baths and a small den. A long balcony connects all the rooms and affords the occupants a sweeping view of the mountains, and a lake beyond.

Halfway to completion, a decision was made to construct an adjacent three-storey building that would serve as a foyer for the house. Inside this foyer building, at the lowest floor, is another kitchen, dining and living room ensemble, a sun deck, and a lap pool at the left end of the lot. Curiously, the dining room is furnished with office furniture—a medium-sized conference table and swivel chairs. Perhaps this is where the owner entertains his lieutenants when they come for emergency meetings. Or perhaps, this is the owner’s way of getting his children accustomed to a boardroom setting.

At the second level are a spa, mini-gym and huge executive toilet and bath. The third level is the only part of the compound with access to the garage, and it is here that all comings and goings are screened. If one were to peer over the gate into the property, one would have no idea that a member of one of the country’s most powerful families was vacationing in this house. The foyer building is a cube, articulated in ara-al stone and painted cement plaster with the same PVC framed glass windows. A koi pond with a bridge way connects the two buildings. Both buildings have elevators.

Monica Sarmiento, a 28-year old interior designer, sat at the helm of this project. Her say over the project was so great that in certain instances, she superseded the architect. Her and the owner’s concept for the house, according to her representative, was a “modern but warm log cabin that has a hotel feel.” Paper-white fields coat the ceilings, walls and floors of the ground floor. Accent walls of stained cedar half-log sidings not only mark points of emphasis, like the end wall of the living-dining area, but also provide design cues to refer to the typical American mid-western gaming log house. Citterio-inspired furniture pieces in fabric, leather and stallion hide are assembled in a straightforward composition at the living area. To keep the focus on the dining room, Sarmiento hung a stainless steel deer horn chandelier atop the center of the table, a proud creation of the interior designer herself.

The second floor is finished in stained wood veneer panels for the walls, ceramic tiles that mimic stained wood for floors, and white painted boards for the ceiling. LED pin lights were used together with halogen bulb droplights in every bedroom. Sarmiento, through her representative, confirmed to me that the bedrooms were deliberately made identical (except for the color of the bed sheets and pillows) to achieve a hotel feel. Even the master bedroom and the adjacent toilet and bath mirror the floor plans of the den at the opposite end of the floor.

According to the project managers, the house design, especially the details, evolved as construction work progressed. Changes in floor-to-floor heights were done, for instance, upon the request of the owner, when he saw that the ceiling heights did not meet his expectations. Needless to say, there was a very close collaboration between the interior designer and the owner.

The design process of this house was new to me. It offered a different perspective on how design could be approached. It is not haute architecture, to be sure. But the excellence of this project lies in the perfect management of its cost efficiency. Attention given to sound economics is obvious everywhere, from the straightforwardness of the space and activity programming, to the use of material mimicry. The house is practical and sensible. It used the best that money could buy for priority comforts (like the elevators), but saved millions by using reasonable alternatives to branded furnishings and expensive artwork. It fulfilled the aspirations of the owner; and as I have been told, he is very happy with it. In the end, that is what counts.

Maybe I should start to explore this new model of design processing. Maybe.

Putting A Finger On Architectural Attraction

X-factor is an “inexplicable quality of a person’s attractiveness or sexiness.” X-factor makes its bearer stand out from the rest. You can’t put a finger on it, the x-factor, but it arrests you, affects your senses, and makes you stare. No, the x-factor is not always a consequence of symmetrical and chiseled beauty. When the x-factor is at its most intense in a celebrity, it spawns cult following and catapults the celebrity into the stratosphere of multi-million dollar annual incomes. This mysterious factor transcends time and space—the magnetism and presence of those who possess it leap out of photographs and LCD screens. Since you cannot identify or explain it, you expose yourself to it for as long as is bearable, in hopes of enlightenment so that you too might acquire the x-factor. You wish.

Take the regal Meryl Streep or the leathery Clint Eastwood—two eminently bankable members of Hollywood royalty well into their golden years. Their x-factor delivered when collagen failed. Then there is Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt—young, fast and furious, oozing x-factor. We can only ogle and remind ourselves to breathe.

I now bravely postulate that there is also an x-factor in architecture. As with the glamour industries, one cannot completely zero-in on the source of architectural x-factor, but I shall attempt to demonstrate it by dissecting Jason Buesalido’s latest residence project that he calls the Kasoy House.

The project, named after the street where it is planted, is a renovation of a 1980s hip-roofed residence. Like most houses built during that decade, its walls and columns were of poured concrete reinforced with steel—that was the prevailing formwork technology available then. The frequent outcomes of such technology were offspring of Brutalist Architecture that was popularized in the Philippines by no less than National Artist for Architecture Leandro Locsin. The style propelled Locsin to national fame. This house, however, was not a Locsin creation, and its owners were fully justified in their intention to completely erase every trace of its brutalism. In short, it was ugly, and the overhaul, necessary.

Buensalido injected new soul into the forlorn front facade by connecting the horizontal planes of the ground floor, second floor and eaves with a transcending diagonal plate to form a stylized Z. In doing so, the formerly symmetrical and boring facade acquired dynamism without compromising the structural and architectural integrity of the building. Columns remain where they were to support the building; and openings stay where they ventilate and illuminate the interior spaces. In the hands of the undisciplined, this house would have received a fresh set of casement moldings, fake winter shutters, columns and corbels that do not support anything, perhaps an arch here and there, and let’s not forget horizontal wood louvers on top of a solid wall that are now the rage of local “modern” architecture.
Buensalido chose the way of intelligent innovation and gave the house new life. Although I was slightly disappointed to discover that the Z facade was nothing more than just that—a facade (I was expecting a stronger follow through of form up to the rear)—I understood from the design intention that it was truly just a veneer; and Buensalido made no attempt to disguise its superficiality or explain it away as something more profound. For that, I forgive him. The design maintained its integrity by being honest about its fakery; it actually became interesting and engaging. Obvious was the intelligent innovation to an old and tired idea.

Boldness is the push to “bend rules, the willingness to risk shame and even rejection” within a framework of calculated consequences. Brashness is everything that boldness is, but done in haste, insensitivity and imprudence with a clear disregard for consequences. Buensalido aims at boldness with the Kasoy House by superimposing on it another design language yet respecting the original building shell. The stairs, which before was a semi spiral, is now a straight flight to the second floor. A similarly assertive straight glass floor under the stairs reveals a decorative gravel bed that runs from the main door to the pool at the back, emphasizing the sweeping progression of spaces along this axis.

The language of the Z facade, although not followed through in general form to the other elevations of the building, is meticulously echoed inside the house. The railings of the stairs depart from the usual balustrade-handrail design. Reincarnated as a sculptural piece of folded volumes and planes, the stairway now provides the visual focus of the entire living room. The ceilings on both floors repeat the angular rhythm of the stair railing and the front facade with clear discipline. The project’s architectural boldness is tempered by the discipline of knowing when to stop.

According to Buensalido, his architecture is always a response to stimuli. In the case of the Kasoy House, one stimulus (or deadener?) in the environment was the tedium of safe, off-white washed walls with natural brown stone. In response, Buensalido introduced generous wall surface areas with teak wood finished tile to lift the stark white Z wall up from the facade of the building. The result is an interesting play of positive and negative volumes and masses that in turn generate implied spaces.

The architecture demonstrates faithfulness to materials and color through the repetition of wood and white in the building. The only counterpoint to the wood and white palette is the occupants’ introduction of muted color in every room. The follow through of the color and material scheme has the consistency of a sinfully thick, stick-to-the-spoon-and-melt-in-your-mouth leche flan.

The renovation project was implemented within a strictly controlled budget. As any proud architect would to another, Buensalido beamed about his baby, but also lamented about how much better it could have been had economics not hit the brakes. I completely understood. All architectural projects have and always will suffer the same fate (no architect ever believes his budget is enough). Given the constraints, it is remarkable how Buensalido was able to pull off architecture that is intelligent, innovative, bold and consistent.

If these four qualities (intelligence, innovativeness, boldness and consistency) are all it takes for architecture to possess the x-factor, then truly beautiful architecture would stand on every street corner. The four concepts are standard curriculum modules in local architecture schools after all. Yet remarkable design comes few and very far between in our side of the world. And so most of us keep staring at the buildings we admire, wondering the how and the why of its x-factor, hoping for enlightenment and wisdom.

There’s a popular quote from philosopher M. H. McKee who wrote, “Wisdom is knowing the right path to take. Integrity is taking it.” Ah, let us not wonder too long.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 02, 2011. Photographs by Ed Simon.

Jaro Celebrates The Successes And Failures Of Its Church Architecture

The Metropolitan Cathedral of Our Lady of the Candles, more famously known as the Jaro Cathedral, was built in the city of Jaro in 1864, at the time the adjacent city of Iloilo was experiencing an economic boom due to the spike in the international demand for sugar. The nobility of Iloilo developed the haciendas of neighboring Negros Island and built their mansions in Jaro, the “First Millionaire’s Row” in the Philippines. It was during this era of plenty that the church opened its doors under Dominican Bishop Mariano Cuartero.

My high school Philippine Sociology teacher (I remember her vividly because she had this uncanny resemblance to the sex doctor Margarita Holmes) told us that we Filipinos possess unique character traits depending on the geographical region one comes from—Luzon, Visayas or Mindanao. This diversity has given us a temperament fabric as distinctly tufted as our geography is fragmented. Unlike the monolithic societies of Asia, we are, she alleged, a very heterogeneous race.

Designed in the Romanesque style, the original cathedral façade is divided in tripartite bays representing two side aisles and a central nave. Seven tall and equidistant arched portals define the side façades all separated by Dorian pilasters that seem to support the layered gabled roof. Ending these series of arcades is the transept that cuts across laterally to form the traditional cruciform floor plan of period churches. A Florentine domed roof sits at the intersection of the nave and transept; and a small cupola caps the summit with a cross finial. One of the few churches in the country with a separate belfry, the Jaro Cathedral today looks to her bell tower with more longing, as a driveway, parking lot and fences (the one around the tower looks more like a cage) sever the umbilical cord between the two structures.

Designed in the same Romanesque style, the belfry apes the dome of the church up to the cupola, with a pediment and arched openings at the façade. Based on old photographs, what stands today is clearly not a faithful restoration of the tower’s design before a strong earthquake destroyed it in 1948.

Our teacher explained that because of the country’s marked geographical distinctions, each region developed unique characteristics that transcended even the inter-migration of the last century. People from Luzon, particularly from Ilocos, she said, developed a thrifty and frugal nature, being immersed in trade for millennia in a relatively barren and hostile landscape. The largest of all the Philippine islands, Luzon assumes the role of welcoming party to the 20 or so typhoons that arrive every year at our geographical doorstep—Bicol. The island also hosts the driest and most barren of regions in the country, Ilocandia. As fertile as the Cordilleras and Sierra Madres may be, they are inaccessible and forbidding. What may be assumed to be the redeeming features of the island—the plains of the Capampangans and Tagalogs—are peppered with volcanoes that make the landscape unpredictably and ever changing. It is this landscape, our teacher said, that made the Filipino from Luzon a shrewd merchant and skilled bargainer.

From 1874 to the destructive earthquake of 1948, the cathedral remained relatively preserved in its original 19th century design. After the rebuilding efforts of then metropolitan patriarch Jose Maria Cuenco during the 1950s, major interventions started appearing, like the porte cochère in the 1950s, two Gothic bell towers in the 1960s, the replacement of wooden beams and rafters with steel in the 1970s, and the conversion of the porte cochère into a ceremonial balcony for the use of Pope John Paul II, when he came to dedicate the cathedral and celebrate the Virgin Mary’s coronation as patroness of Western Visayas in 1980s. Finally, in 2010, the archdiocese of Jaro launched a massive rehabilitation campaign to address pressing safety and utilitarian concerns, and purportedly, an express desire by Jaroanons to beautify their church.

Mindanaoans, our teacher continued, were able to maintain a greater degree of cultural purity owing to their warrior like traits, martial culture and rigid mores. Due to its proximity to Malaysia, Mindanao embraced Islam, and developed a culture very different from that of Luzon and Visayas, and much more similar to the rest of Southeast Asia. Unlike their northern brothers, Mindanaoans resisted Spanish colonization up to the very end, and today continue to resist the modern-day colonizers of Imperial Manila.

The proponents of the rehabilitation effort are proud of how conscientiously, thoroughly and responsibly Jaro’s heritage has been protected, its present needs addressed and future concerns anticipated through their work. Apart from the expected documentation and restoration of original pieces like chandeliers, retablos, and statuary, major structural interventions were done, such as the complete replacement of the gable and dome roof material; the replacement of decaying wood trusses and rafters with steel; and the almost complete replacement of the structural frame of the dome drum. Architectural and cosmetic work was also done, like the introduction of a mezzanine floor at the sacristy for storage; grilled gates to define the narthex from the nave; a new and vibrant multi-color palette for the interiors; the painting of trompe l’oiel to the vaulted ceilings, arches and cornices; installation of new murals in the sanctuary and choir loft; and the addition of planters and pots at the front and on both sides of the church.

Nagging questions come to mind at this point: What makes a heritage structure? Is it age? A certain level of craftsmanship? Or perhaps, the mere visit of a mega-celebrity, such as a pontiff or president? Cultural heritage is defined as “the legacy of physical artifacts and intangible attributes of a group or society that are inherited from past generations, maintained in the present and bestowed for the benefit of future generations.” The heritage label gets bandied about quite a bit. Would the childhood residence of a nation’s ruler count as heritage even if it were downright ugly and without integrity? How about a deteriorating and under utilized office building sitting on prime property that is ‘only’ 30 years old, but was designed by a revered national artist? Would a century-old church of average design value that has suffered improper and invasive interventions across its existence, but has been touched by one of her congregation’s most exalted vicar, qualify?

Jaro Cathedral’s two concrete Gothic steeples installed in the Sixties seem to be pushing out from under the earth, through the bowels of a helpless Romanesque basilica. It reminds one of an extra-terrestrial parasite engulfing a confused terrestrial host. One may even speculate that the two spires were intended to ‘keep up’ with the neighboring Molo Church, whose Gothic silhouette has always been more impressive. The ‘neo-neo-classic’ pontifical balcony with its garland of stairs appears to be playing patintero with cathedral façade in a game of design one-upmanship. The shrine of Our Lady of the Candles looks like a plastic nose planted on the church’s weathered sandstone face. If the Jaro Cathedral were to benefit from a proper and faithful restoration effort, would the stairs, balcony and beloved shrine be removed in order to return the façade to when it was built 146 years ago?

A member of the Iloilo Heritage Conservation Council has this to say: “Commemorative constructions like that happen all the time. You have constructions to commemorate the coming of, let’s say, Taft or Roosevelt. A lot bridges were put up because we knew that a dignitary was coming. I’m not saying that what they did was right or wrong. You can’t get rid of the balcony anymore—maraming magagalit! May value na ‘yan e. The pope was there; people visit the shrine. That’s part of the heritage of the church already.”

I say that what they did was wrong. Would the same kind of commemorative construction for a papal visit be acceptable, say, at Paoay Church? The Jaro cathedral now has part of her heritage 60, 50 and 30-year old design mistakes that not even the saint-nominee John Paul II can demolish—so fervent is the reverence of the people for the shrine. It appears that Immanuel Kant was correct when he said that anything, as long as everyone agrees that it is beautiful, becomes beautiful.

In the end, the Iloilo conservationist admits that if it has been up to him, he would not have had the balcony and shrine constructed there.

The interiors, however, are quite the opposite story. The glorious trompe l’oeil across the sanctuary walls and ceiling, although new, are beautiful, awe-inspiring, and according to the conservationist BluPrint spoke with, well researched. Nothing to grumble about here, for the original interior surfaces, as far as anyone can remember and archival photographs show, had always been plain. The repainting of the side retablos is equally impressive. The whole composition of the interiors is an explosion of color that pleasantly assaults the senses.

Finally, my teacher ventured that while Mindanao gave rise to Filipinos of the warrior class, and Luzon shaped Filipinos of the merchant class, the Visayas raised Filipinos of the noble class. Being from the Visayas, she said this about her region: The Visayans, being blessed with lush, fertile lands, were bred in relative luxury and wealth, existing a nonchalant island life, developed to be the most jovial, light hearted and carefree of Filipinos—they are born partyphiles, the masters of the good life. This cluster of islands is now being promoted as the tourism capital of the country. This part of the Philippines knows how to have fun.

I think Jaro just had too much fun than they should with their cathedral.

A Brute Barako Brandishes Brawn In Bucolic Batangas

My lola, bless God she’s still around, used to call the male swine in her farm “barako.” I called him the darling of my lola’s inahin (sows). As a kid, I always had fun going to the family farm in Tarlac because I knew I would see my lola feed the barako, who enjoyed a pen all to himself. Mariquita, my lola, would have taken a bullet for him. He was top hog in those parts, ascendant to an illustrious line of memorable menudos, sinigangs and lechons that the family enjoyed with healthy quantities of beer served by my beer-loving lola. I learned years later that he ended up as the chops I gorged on in one family reunion. But why am I talking about pork when I should be talking about architecture?

Recently, I drove to Batangas and found myself in the company of another barako. While the former was made of cholesterol-laden goodness, this one was of concrete, steel and wood. The Terraza de Barako Café and Chapel squat brute and bold in the middle of provincial Batangas. Together, they comprise the initial leisure facilities of Hacienda San Benito, a residential farm development in Lipa that includes an organic garden and swimming pools. The developers commissioned the design firm of Jason Buensalido to overhaul and re-brand the estate from Mexican to Filipino. It was just as well.

Buensalido says that his firm always aims for architecture that is purposeful and intelligent, a response to stimulus brought about by the site, stakeholders and the project itself. While using a foreign design template may be one response to the latest fads and whims of the market, it is both pointless and stupid. Buensalido makes this position ever so loudly, not only by insisting on Filipino as the carrier concept, but also by following through with the use of local farm produce as form take-off and building material. He takes his boldness further to risky heights by introducing architecture that is anti-contextual of historical form in legacy-conscious Batangas.

While my lola’s barako fed her bank account and eventually my stomach, Buensalido’s Terraza de Barako will feed your senses. This is in no way intended to liken the remarkable piece of architecture to swine. Well, okay, the metaphor maybe unorthodox, but this is a farm building after all!

The café is an open pavilion constructed out of a reinforced concrete frame with a pitched roof clad in naked grass shingles. A strongly obtuse angular entasis was introduced to the entire form. The effect is a forceful emphasis on the sharp sweeping ‘movement’ of the building, very similar to viewing a box through an ultra-wide angle lens. The exaggerated way even the railing stanchions are ‘entasized’ do not fail to elicit a double take after one has just gotten over the astonishment of seeing the building for the first time.

The floor and wall cladding material is of a local metamorphic rock very similar to ara-al stone, all sourced from the site. Beside the café is a short stretch of an organic garden where they harvest their menu offerings.

A few meters away is the chapel, which they call the Capilya del Sagrado Corazon. According to Buensalido, the inspiration for this unique chapel is the spheroid shape of the local farm produce, melons and eggplants. The ovoid domed chapel is a trailblazing but appropriately organic form for sacred architecture in these parts of the countryside; it is a giant artichoke nestled on a patch of warm earth. Eight layers of grass shingle ‘petals’ overlap each other in an eternal circle where at their interstices light and air are allowed inside.

Defining the circular plan are eight steel arcs that support the dome and capitulate to a skylight. Three segmented steel tension rings prevent the dome from ultimately splaying flat on the ground. Reed mats are used as ceiling material to conceal what the architect considers as unsightly roof purlins. Pews and altar furniture were especially commissioned to achieve a strong follow-through with the architecture.

The word barako also refers to a strong stag of a man in Filipino folk culture, a take off from the term for male livestock. The name was eventually adopted by Batangueños for their now-famous coffee, with obvious metaphoric reference to the barako’s boldness, strength and potency. Buensalido, whose design language has captured all three masculine overtones in architecture, has now created the barako’s metaphor in design.

And my lola? She stopped eating pork a few years ago. But she still drinks beer.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 02, 2011. Photographs by Ed Simon.

When I was starting my career as an architect, design for me was more emotional than intellectual. Aesthetic appreciation was a function of the senses and gut feel rather than a rational analysis of history and design processes. Beauty, I felt, should move me. Beauty should engage and arrest a person in a prolonged suspension of disbelief. I still hold to this design philosophy, but have since added to it an appreciation and desire for an intelligent design process behind the arresting aesthetics. What I look for now is the sublime.

Buildings and spaces that have this ‘sublime effect’ on me are the Notre Dame in Paris when you behold the buttressed façade from behind at the court yard; the Mumbai Harbour under the shadow of the Gateway of India on a foggy morning; the Washington Mall as you survey the grand quartet of the Capitol Building, Reflecting Pool and the Washington and Lincoln Memorials on a clear spring sunset. There is one place in the Philippines that holds me in a sublime spell—the San Agustin Church in Paoay.

I have been to San Agustin Church four times across a period of 17 years. Each time, the sublime feeling increases in intensity as I acquire the wisdom to appreciate it with respect to history, design, technology and aesthetic value. What is common in all four visits is this feeling of inexplicable awe.

In Kantian discourse, the “experience of the sublime” is the human reaction of “extraordinary awe” to that which is infinite, incomparable, incalculable, immeasurable and inimitable. Kant coalesced all previous studies of aesthetics, or the philosophical investigation of beauty, and differentiated the human response to beauty and to the sublime this way: one loves the Beautiful but fears the Sublime, for the Sublime has greatness and power that compel and can destroy.

I was in freshman architecture school when I first visited Paoay Church, as it is simply called. I had nothing with which to appreciate the structure but some historical factoids printed in clumsily made pamphlets by the Department of Tourism that my father handed to me. The church was built from 1694 to 1710 under Augustinian supervision. The cornerstone was laid in 1704 but it was only dedicated by the end of the 19th century. The church was put to use before full completion, which was the norm in most church projects of the time. Earthquakes damaged the church in 1706 and 1927. The bell tower was constructed much later in 1793, and was used by the Katipuneros and anti-Japanese guerillas as a watchtower.

The building also suffered tampering by no less than Imelda Marcos during her and President Ferdinand Marcos’ conjugal rule. Local tales recount how the former first lady had columns that purportedly supported the roof removed for the annual Christ The King festivities. I was awed when I learned that piece of trivia from my father, an avid Aquino supporter who vilified each and every move the Marcoses made. My dad’s commentaries on Imelda made her and whatever she touched larger than life. Though without the architectural training to judiciously appreciate the structure, the grandeur of its architecture—reinforced by the legend of its celebrated vandal—cemented Paoay in my juvenile mind as absolutely and unconditionally sublime. (I would later find out that it was just as well that the controversial columns had been removed, because they were a product of an earlier misguided renovation by a parish priest.)

I was well into my working years when I visited Paoay the second and third time, both as backpacking traveler with friends. I was more circumspect with my admiration, schooled by mentors to regard architecture with a critical eye. The church’s unique design value revealed itself in layers in much the same way that the Taj Mahal unravels itself as its beholder approaches. Architecture scholars refer to the church’s design as “Earthquake Baroque,” an evolution of the highly ornamented and coquettish European design style advanced to resist our country’s brute earthquakes. In Paoay, Chinese and Malay influences mix effortlessly with European Gothic and Baroque.

The form, viewed from the plaza, is reminiscent of the Borobudur in Java, Indonesia. It is squat and stable, but proud and grand, with niches and turrets at the pediment that are typical of archipelagic Asian architecture. Iberian Baroque and Gothic show through the column-entablature façade composition. What is unique is its almost equal column-to-pediment ratio, which is highly atypical of Baroque churches in Europe. Six pilasters partition the 25-meter façade in proportionate bays evoking a graceful architectural valse.

To each side of the church are twelve titanic buttresses that divide and support the 100-meter long walls made out of huge coral stones 1.67 meters thick. One pair of buttresses is wider than the rest, with steps that reach to the roof gutter. Historians conclude that this may have been provided to facilitate periodic repairs of the once thatched roof. Rusting corrugated GI roof sheets now sadly sit in place of graceful grass bundles. The rest of the buttresses are adorned with gigantic European scroll appliqués that are ultimately tempered by stubby Asian finials.

The architecture of this church leaves me breathless. The genius put into it is astounding. It truly is Filipino architecture that is incomparable and unlike any of our Asian neighbors. Those who say that Philippine architecture does not exist need to get themselves to Paoay and survey this structure. If they have any discernment at all, they shall see its indigenous artistry masterfully dominating the colonising architecture with grace.

Just as there is the sublime experience of awe in appreciating a huge edifice, Kantian philosophy also postulates the sublimity of a ravaging storm. The sheer natural power and resulting destruction reduces one into sublime submission. Edmund Burke reinforces this idea by declaring that the sublime need not be beautiful all the time. In fact, the sublime may “inspire horror, but one receives pleasure in knowing that the perception is a fiction.”

Now, what would be more horrifying than to find out that one’s perception is not fiction but is actually happening? Would that be the ultimate sublime?

During my most recent visit to Paoay last October, I was horrified upon entering the church to discover one conservation faux pas after another. The altar where a church’s architectural glory should reside is a design slapstick that is not at all funny. How a plain Neo-Roman vaulted ceiling made of shoddily painted plywood with shadow coves and a fake oculus becomes Baroque, Gothic or Asian will now form part of this church’s historical mystery.

It would be safe to assume that if conservationists had worked on Paoay, they would have first determined which era within the life of the historical building they would restore it to. For an edifice of this heritage and significance surely they could not have chosen the 1980s! Yet everywhere there were signs of the cheap, garish and mass-produced that do not at all belong in the hand-hewn stone church.

Unpainted ferrous red steel angular bars now creep in the web of wood trusses and purlins that support the roof. The wall that supports the mezzanines at the sacristy reveal deliberately distressed bricks faced off of its plastering. The ‘remaining’ plaster bears an uncanny resemblance to the inverted map of the Iberian peninsula. Industry grade high bay sodium lamps mark the centerline of a squad of slender columns with hotel-fare Graeco-Roman recessed and chamfered face mouldings and cornices. These posts in paper-white field with accents of deep ochre cap this mélange of architectural follies.

And so on this last trip, the experience of the sublime was this: the sublime of the beautiful and the horrifying warring with each other; the sublime of immeasurable frustration that the Philippines had its own Notre Dame, Taj Mahal and Tokugawa yet failed to claim it; the sublime of incalculable regret that with all our experts in conservation—some of who, by the way, are winning awards in other countries for restoring their heritage landmarks—we had the capacity to do what was needed, but politics and corruption instead had their way; and the sublime fear that incomparable idiocy might eventually lead to the wholesale bastardization of this World Heritage Site.

In 1986, soon after then American Senator Paul Laxalt phoned Ferdinand Marcos to “cut and cut cleanly,” the latter was whisked out of Malacañan, beyond the reach of the yellow mob that would soon take over the palace. Upon landing in Hawaii, Marcos reportedly wailed, “I thought he said Paoay, not Hawaii!”

Marcos never came back to experience the sublime that I had. I don’t know who is luckier.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 01, 2011. Photographs by Ulysses Galgo and John Roux.

In the early 20th century, the seminal design philosophies of American architect Louis Sullivan, “form (ever) follows function,” and Austrian architect Adolf Loos, “ornament is crime,” gave rise to one of the most potent form finding methods of the Modernist movement—functionalism. Mies Van Der Rohe’s famous dictum, “less is more,” followed, elevating functionalism to a position of primacy. Generations of designers embraced its tyranny, designing forms that were slave to function—the skeleton and bowels of Modern buildings shamelessly exposed; building form, materials and construction methods dictated wholly by the use of the spaces inside. Neo-classicists went berserk, offended by the Modernists’ “shockingly simple” and “brute” designs. Modernism prevailed however, as technological advancements of the machine age, changing tastes, a middle class and other economic forces converged, making functionalism almost inevitable. Functionalism reached a bleak extreme in utilitarianism, and the pendulum started swinging back in the opposite direction.

In the Philippines, you might say that the pendulum is swinging crazily in various directions, with houses, subdivisions and developments mixing together architectural styles and design elements not only from different continents and climes, but from different eras as well.

Over at the De La Salle campus in Alabang is a structure that is faithful to its Modernist ancestors. It is the sports pavilion of the Santiago-Zobel unit of the school system run by the famous green brothers, and it was designed by the firm of Francis Santaromana. Santaromana is from the University of the Philippines College of Architecture, a school famous for graduates that produce perfectly theorized and planned buildings with disappointingly flat and forgettable facades. Santaromana breaks the mold with an intelligently planned structure that is equally memorable in composition.

The De La Salle brothers awarded the project to Santaromana for winning the competition of the sports pavilion’s design. Sponsored by Hunter Douglas, the competition’s design brief called for the preservation of the school’s old steel gym and the provision of a new wing for a state-of-the-art sports facility that would house the school’s varsity teams—a fitting tribute to sports excellence that the De La Salle brothers unstintingly champion, and a fitting reward for the school champions’ long and glorious history of domination in collegiate sports.

Using the concept of “enhancing the old and idealizing the new,” the design firm renovated the old regulation gable-roofed gym, highlighting its amenities and integrating a more tropical climate responsive design. Maintaining the skeletal system, Santaromana clad the structure with an exterior wall panel that combines steel louvers, spandrel metal panels and awning aluminum windows on the east-west axis. The sun is at its most harsh at this axis, preventing game goals from being situated at the east and west ends of the gym as the glare from the sun makes accurate aim simply impossible. The combination louver-wall-window addresses this concern. The louvered wall, set on the gym floor, provides passive ventilation while protecting the interiors from the elements. The spandrel panels block unwanted glare from the adjacent football field outside, at a height measured to keep the sun out at eye level. Sunlight enters instead through awning windows above this special wall assembly, filtered by overhangs.

Further to the apex of the roof structure, a clerestory window was introduced to provide an outlet for the hot air that accumulates due to convected and re-radiated heat from outside, and of course, from the warm bodies on the floor. This same window serves as an inlet for indirect, natural light bouncing off from the roof soffit to the courts below, reducing the need to operate the gym’s high intensity lamps. This intelligent design consideration extends to the seams of the walls and roof structure, where light generously streams through gaps calculated to allow just enough light to flood the roof soffit. At the south end of the structure, louvers are introduced to further regulate the ambient temperature by allowing stale, hot air to exit.

In addition, the designers used heat reducing, high-performance glass for the ribbon windows embracing the building, and roof material that likewise insulates against heat. All these introductions were executed seamlessly onto the old structure it is hard to tell where the old ends and new begins.

At the north side of the old gym, Santaromana planted a handsome vaulted dome that seems to hover over the new multipurpose court. This, he says, represents “the idealized new,” which responds to the aspirations of school’s sports program. At this wing, wet floors and bleacher stands inside and out are introduced at the ground level. Of special note is the brilliant solution of using glass blocks as risers for the outside bleachers, allowing light to come into otherwise dark and damp dug out rooms. Santaromana intimates that because of this, the rooms had become so engaging that management wanted to use it for their offices instead.

Further to the northern end of the new wing, an elevated stage serves as focal point for school assemblies. As a counterpoint to this amenity, a grandstand was attached outside to the eastern wall of the new wing, transforming that side into the dominant façade of the facility, instead of the western elevation that Santaromana intended for the main façade. Sadly, horribly designed walkways and uninspired buildings mar the western side. Santaromana may yet change his mind and consider the eastern side as his carrier elevation.

To crown this architectural composition, an oval running track was overlaid at the structure’s second level, at some sections made of steel, at others, of reinforced concrete—a peculiarity necessitated by the limited carrying capacity of the old structure. New steel columns were introduced, offsetting the old structure by four meters to prop up the oval track where it traverses the old gym. The architect says he made sure that views from this amenity are ever changing and dynamic. Wall treatments that flank the track are dissimilar to say the least, providing an apparent evolution of perceived space as you run the track.

All these amenities were executed without intention to hide or disguise with panels or veneers. All is in plain sight, honest. Such integrity is rare in a country peppered with buildings parading as “Modern.” Santaromana’s design leads the line of true Modernist buildings in the context of the 21st century, an age where the order of concern is survival against the harsh elements brought about by humankind’s wanton disregard for the environment.

Had Mies seen this building, he might have scratched his balding head questioning why we veil our buildings in protective material when his protégé Philip Johnson wrapped his house in virgin glass panels. We can’t help it. We’ll get skin cancer if we don’t—if raging floodwaters don’t get us first. Would Mies be as happy with our modern as Darwin was of his favorite simian? I don’t know. Be that as it may, the DLSZ Sports Pavilion sits snugly in Alabang as an evolved inspiration for Filipino Modernists of the new century.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 05, 2010. Photographs by Willian Ong.

The Aqua Tower, the Newest Girl Among Chicago’s Old Boys

Aesthetic value, according to aesthetic philosophy giants David Hume and Immanuel Kant, should be judged by this parameter: Delight is the result when pleasure arises from sensation. Further, something delightful becomes beautiful when this feeling of pleasure is the product of reflective contemplation. Contemplate I did on this new building that rose from the flat banks of Lake Michigan just recently, called the Aqua Tower. This building’s claim to fame, however, is not so much that it was conferred the title, 2009 Skyscraper of the Year by the Emporis Skyscraper Award committee—a coveted honor recognized around the world—made sweeter by the fact that it trumped the Donald’s much publicized Trump Tower (also in Chicago), designed by goliath firm Skidmore, Owings & Merrill LLP. The Aqua’s notable achievements (and there are many) are at once eclipsed and magnified by the fact that it was designed by a woman—Jeanne Gang of Studio Gang Architects, and it is the tallest skyscraper designed and completed by a female-run architectural practice.

Sitting on a 2.7-hectare property along Columbus Drive in Chicago, the Aqua Tower stands 82 stories tall. It generates a total floor area of approximately 176,500 square meters, distributed to office and residential condominiums, serviced apartments, retail, a hotel, parking facilities, leisure and civic areas, and a roof deck park. Magellan Development Corporation, the owners, boast of pioneering this multi-use development format in old school Chicago. The price tag of $350 Million (P17 Billion) doesn’t faze the owners one bit, especially as a LEED Silver Certification is in the pipeline for this expensive project. Aqua scored a 5 out of 5 for innovation and design process; 9 points for sustainable site; 2 for water efficiency; 3 for minimal use of energy and effect on the atmosphere; 6 for materials and resources; and 7 for indoor environmental quality. In addition, Aqua has one of the biggest green roof amenities in Chicago, exceeding the city standard by 25 percent.

More impressive is the intelligence and diligence spent on the architectural smartness of the building. The facade is wrapped in undulating balconies that cantilever up to 12 feet and differ in shape from floor to floor. These undulations sufficiently “confuse” wind, breaking up wind tunnels, greatly reducing the sway of the tower, thus eliminating the need for a tune mass damper. In addition, the wavy balconies provide the building with such valuable benefits as: optimum “daylighting”, maximum passive warming during winter, enhanced views—sightlines calculated to cross through the gaps of neighboring buildings to more desired sights, and believe it or not, minimized bird strikes—that is, helping birds not to collide onto the tower’s sheer glass walls. Apparently, Gang is quite fond of birds and this peculiar but immensely interesting design consideration makes for irresistible copy for every writer and observer reporting about this building (see, we are no exception).

The entire composition of the building facade is undeniably feminine, with its soft curves, seemingly random recesses and protrusions, and multi-dimensionality of surfaces. This attention to detail is truly an undeniable virtue that is as all-woman as the pope is Catholic. It is in this essential woman-ness of the design and design process that puts the spotlight on Jeanne Gang. But, as if it was more of a curse than a blessing, Gang consistently dismisses this specific gender advantage as an outdated stereotype.

Women, you see, secretly get grizzly when men highlight their woman-hood in the context of work and gender equality. And didn’t we think that’s what they wanted to begin with? This is no more telling than Gang’s response to an interview by this magazine. “As a woman architect, what do you think is your edge among other architects? Is there a specific characteristic of your building designs that is unique to you?” To which Gang replied: “My outlook and perspective is more about who I am as a unique person than about my gender.”

Sharp. I have always thought that gender forms a large part of your uniqueness as a person. I recently posted a poll at Facebook to find out my friends’ reaction to this question: All qualifications being equal, to whom would you give a high profile commission like this: a man-minded man, a man-minded woman, a woman-minded man or a woman-minded woman? The most interesting answer I got was from a lady architect friend who emphatically declared that it should go to the man-minded woman, which, she claimed, would give the project the best of both worlds. Although my poll was in no way scientifically done, it did provide me with an insight that buttresses how Gang parries gender-related questions.  I suspect genderless design, the natural offspring of gender equality and feministic philosophical schools, might actually not exist at all.

While I initially thought that the building’s design is of a radical turn to the feminine, a slightly disappointing discovery brings me to think that the man-minded woman indeed may be best of the options in my poll. The structural essence of this tower is a very masculine monolith of cold glass, militarily rigid column layout, straightforward rectilinear plan and uncompromising structural core right at the very center of the building. This building is no more unique than the UN Headquarters in New York; only it managed to appear in a ruffled blouse. It reminds me of Margaret Thatcher in a tutu.

I am a believer in strong follow through in design from outside in. What stopped Gang from applying the same exhaustive, detailed, non-masculine thought on the structural concept of the building the way she did with the skin remains a mystery to me.

The mind prevails right when our corporal veneer decays. Gender, I believe, resides in the philosophy of the being, not in its biology. The aesthetic value of this building is high. It appeals to the senses, the emotions and the intelligence. It is beautiful. The affirmative analogy between the Aqua Tower and “her” designer is glaring though. It is still a brute male in a graceful designer gown—a man-minded woman. I refuse to believe it is the best of the options.

In the context of this building and its attempt to be woman (though Gang denies this) in a man’s world, my best option is a woman-minded woman: a pure “woman building”—from the skeleton, nails, wires, down to gravel and out to glass. Gang should’ve shoved “I am woman” down all our throats and be done with it. But she didn’t, and that disappoints me.

In a situation free of bias and baggage, all four—man-minded man, man-minded woman, woman-minded man or woman-minded woman—occupy equal spaces in my book. They each have their own genius that is unique.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Special Volume 01, 2010. Photographs by Steve Hall and Dane Tashima.

The Mind Broadening Eli and Edythe Broad Art Museum

“You don’t always have to show art in what’s called a white box.” Zaha Hadid, world renowned architect more famous for her outlandish fashion than maybe for her Pritzker, said of her recent museum commission in the heart of the Michigan State University campus. Now this very white box got itself stepped on flat by the titanic talent of Hadid herself, attempted to make a rebound back to it’s perfect rectilinear form, but never just quite made it. That’s how the museum looks like, if it were up to me. It is a building with just enough ugliness that it makes you smile and wonder at the mad brilliance behind it. It then grows on you. Before you know it, it is beautiful.

Given as a donation by the philanthropist couple Eli and Edyth Broad of the US real estate empire KB Home, the museum occupies a total floor area of 3,900 square meters, distributed in three levels. The floor plan, similarly obscured as its facades, is sharp and angular. The ground floor has an entrance courtyard embraced by two wings jutting out from a main volume that houses public and private exhibition halls, and support administrative offices. The second floor has a more generous floor space for public exhibition that over looks the double volume lobby beside the courtyard. Museum support services and smaller exhibition galleries occupy the third floor.

Hadid, also a recent nominee of Time Magazine to their 100 Most Influential People in the World issue last May, further said of the project:

“People who visit it (will) affect them… then it makes you curious, then you go look it up… (makes you) run, buy a book and read it, might make you travel to other places, and make you think.”

This major concept of “attracting curiosity” as the anchor idea for the form and surface articulation was achieved by folding the different circulation and visual connections of the site. The idea of it being an “urban carpet” that brings together and negotiates the different directions and movements of people moving through and around the site was claimed to be achieved by having strong directional pleats to cover the artistically mangled box. This, however, makes the museum look like a giant radiator than a structure that defines the layering of the urban fabric of the campus. While this claim that the pleats successfully express this urban context maybe highly debatable, it does provide this delightful appearance that entices yet shuns to completely reveal itself. It was, after all, the intention of Hadid to tease you as such until you arrive at this artistic orgasm while appreciating the building.

Hadid further explains that visual cues and the movement of people within the immediate environment defined the ultimate form of the building. This was achieved by traversing these same line through the site, thereby producing the interesting obscured form that it now has. This, for her, establishes the strong relationship of the building with its context.

I find this thought process in strong contradiction though to one of her declarations that context already ceases to be in terms of adjacencies and visual appearance. She said this of one of her projects in Amman of the same use-type. This resistance to environmental context, she said, makes your design fresh. This museum in Michigan, however strongly it pays homage to the environmental context, still came out fresh and exciting, and how. Hadid’s opposing contextual versus anti-contextual design processes seem to work both ways. It’s either one of the two design philosophies is a fraud, or Hadid is just extremely talented.

If it were up to her, this museum’s form just had the right mangling to make it ugly beautiful, and that should be enough. Anything more would produce a Frank Gehry building already.

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 04, 2010. Photographs courtesy of Zaha Hadid Architects.

Cyberport Offers a New Architectural Slang That Defies Both Traditional and the Popular

For 156 years, Hong Kong had been under British imperial rule. Through that time, her people acquired a mutated sense of identity unique from the rest of China. A strange urban fabric blankets the city that makes it so attractive to the mobile and impatient, the way New York City beckons the ambitious country American. Hong Kong architecture also has this ripe look of cosmopolitan Asia that is so different from other capitals. It is tall, sharp, accentuated and polished but at the same time indirect and enigmatic. The Oriental softness is almost absent, capitulating to a design character of might and power. It is the architectural language of consumerism at its summit.

Language is a living instrument that unites a people and develops culture. Architecture as an evolving art is an inaudible language yet at times is so deafening you cannot ignore it. Arquitectonica’s Cyberport speaks a new design language that defies the local slang and defies local sensibilities even more.

Located on the landfill of the original Telegraph Bay between the densely tropical hills of Hong Kong Island and the ocean, Pacific Century Cyberworks’ Cyberport is a 532,000 square meter titan reclining across a sprawling 24 hectares of land along the coast. Do note that words such as “reclining” and “sprawling” are alien in Hong Kong development mantras. The cluster of eight buildings, which have won the AIA Award of Excellence, the Gold Bienal Award, the Intelligent Building of the Year Award and a host of other awards, houses offices, a retail mall, a 175-room hotel, serviced apartments and residential towers.

From a distance, the project snakes along the coast like a blue dragon paying quiet respect to the coastline from which its sinuous form was derived. Its horizontal lines and “ground-scraping” form evoke a sense of calm, inclusiveness and stability. The usual emotive qualities associated with horizontal lines and spaces end there, however—there is nothing sleepy or static about this reclining giant. The buildings are a dynamic collage of transparent glass volumes set on a rugged stone base, a contrast of modernist architecture against a natural setting. Approaching from the coastal artery of Sha Wan Drive, the collage of trapezoids and parallelograms reveal themselves as bands of blue and green glass panes, accentuated by silver streaks of steel window frame nosings. Powerful acute corners provide climax to the dragon’s architectural prose, which is so dissimilar to that prevailing in the choked metropolis. The language is expansive, pioneering and purposeful, with volumes conveying velocity and acceleration.

With Hong Kong seeking to redefine itself as the information technology hub of Asia, Pacific Century Cyberworks (PCCW) wanted a new building typology that would symbolize their leadership in the field, and they got it. (Interestingly, the Cyberport’s situation on what was once Telegraph Bay yields a rather neat symbolism: the original information revolution started by the telegraph is replaced by the new Internet-based information revolution.) Further, PCCW recognized that the new typology would have to have new parameters for the workspace to provide the right environment for creativity.

Creativity thrives in interaction, says architect Matthew McCullum, associate director and regional principal of the Arquitectonica design firm. Creativity prospers in humanizing spaces, escapes from the electronic workstation. Thus it was determined that the project would have places of interaction, places of shared support and services facilities, where the two key forces shaping the new information industry—the multinational corporate giants with resources and distribution networks, and the new young upstarts with new ideas yet seeking capital support—could meet and exchange ideas. This notion of the primacy of creativity then led to the idea of multiple buildings coming together in one shared, inclusive building.

Upon my inquiry on the firm’s design philosophy, McCullum begged to differ from equally globally popular designers in having a single, all-projects-applicable belief system. For Arquitectonica, projects are allowed their unique “contextual” philosophy, from which the branded character of the firm reveals itself.

Viewing it from the exterior, an intelligent dual reading of form is required from the viewer as you are tugged between appreciating it as a single building or a collection of individual buildings coming to a contributed whole. The dragon composition begins with a taller “head” facing the green and anchoring the site at the base of the valley, establishing itself as the prime or anchor building in the hierarchy. The buildings rapidly descend in height to allow residential towers behind the site to retain views to the water. As views are cleared, the volumes of the office complex rise in height, resulting in an undulating composition that culminates in a taller “tail” building that marks the arrival from the residential district.

It is in the interiors that the firm takes its gospel of contextual design meaning and metaphor to an admirable height. I am not a fan of color, and I am drawn to the cold, monochrome palette of Central Hong Kong, thinking it superior. Cyberport however, put me to shame as I found its color-washed interior truly engaging; and certainly not in any kindergarten sort of manner. McCullum in fact intimated that a local bureaucrat found the matte and chromatic composition appalling and would have pursued its disapproval had it not been for the designer’s persistence. It was, according to the official, too un-Hong Kong.

Central to this plan of masses is an “IT Street” that connects nodes of vertical corridors. Alternating warm browns and beiges flood the floor finished with engineered wood. The walls are articulated in glass and pre-painted aluminum plate paneling along this corridor for nearly a kilometer. This same artery serves as the intersection points of various tenants to promote this creative environment. As you traverse from end to end, you will notice themes of color and finishes subtly change to define one building from another, but this metaphor to China is constantly present: vertical lines of random slight angles that mimic the criss-crossing of bamboo stalks.

In one of our stops, Arquitectonica business development director Courtney Davies explained that the firm departed from the 1990s de rigueur form finding process of starting with iconic references that is often accompanied by blind form development oblivious to project site and cultural context. Instead, the firm focused on responsive contextual form development that largely results in post-occupancy property value appreciation. It thus deflected misguided project briefs set by clients that dictate the architectural language rather than promote the unrestricted evolution of the form. What emerged was an interesting collection of projects that reflect this quiet but powerful architecture that is uniquely Arquitectonica’s.

At the very beginning of this linear composition is a huge four-storey high atrium. This is where chauffeured guests alight before a wide, floating undulating wall of stained wood almost twelve meters tall. It marks your arrival and your welcome. McCullum, during the design development of this particular wall feature, drew the undulations in discreet and shallow

waves in keeping with the cultural context of the host city. At which point, Bernardo Brescia, the main man of Arquitectonica himself, thought the wall needed more intensity and passion. He drew it over in wild and mad tsunamis of undulation—and then he was happy.

After immersing yourself in Hong Kong Central, see the famous passionate wall for yourself. It will tell you, “Welcome. We speak a new language here. Let us teach you how.”

With permission from BluPrint Magazine. Reposted from Volume 08, October 2009. Photographs by Eric Niemy, Dick Chow, Aaron Chow and Amral Imran.