The French sociologist Jean Davallon has said that the exhibition as a media outlet is characterised by “their social inter­activity, their material heterogeneity and their semiotic ambiguity”.¹ Or, in other words, exhibitions consist of a combination of materials or media, the visitors are an integrated component, and they constitute a symbolic reality that distinguishes them from an “external” reality. Architecture exhibitions, major biennials in particular, are characterised by a variety of expressions and are often far more developed than art exhibitions. Today, many parallel media outlets share the same exhibition space, sometimes within the same installation, competing for our attention. There is really no limit to how architecture can be presented at an exhibition, which makes it more difficult to communicate its content clearly. As a result, curators must assume responsibility for making this potentially chaotic cacophony of expression cohesive and rigorous.

A visit to the “forest house” begins with the forest and the place. In a small patch of 550 m² in the middle of an area at Oppsal characterized by small houses, Atelier Dalziel and Matthew Dalziel endeavors to change architecture’s treatment of nature, in fact demonstrating how architecture might be a dynamic part of nature. The surrounding area sports manicured lawns and gardens abounding with thujas, in what was once a calcareous pine forest. In these 550 m² the remains of the forest, some pine trees that have been kept and the corresponding rock slopes below are preserved. Conventional building practice would entail cutting down everything and blasting the site into a flat landfill of blasted rock, ready for a “rational” efficient building process.

I arrived in Hedeskov by bike, in the rain, bringing a piece of Bergen with me – rainy weather. The old brickwork school, now transformed into a center for regenerative practice, shone through the rain in a coat of new mortar in a light color. The former school now accommodates a space for mediation and learning, a live-in residency, office spaces, and a home for the family running the center.

Few buildings allow you to experience architecture as close to the skin as public swimming pools. They are important communal spaces, often on par with libraries – offering plenty of light, space, design and physical culture. People play, undergo rehabilitation or try to achieve their personal best. Public swimming pools represent a kind of interstitial space where the digital noise is replaced with the sound of water, where your thoughts can roam free while your body moves back and forth in meditative repetition and the boundaries of time are erased.

For a short while yet, a building that has been seen by few but whose history is closely linked with the development of Finnish statehood remains standing by Helsinki’s historical Senate Square. The old printing house, hidden in the courtyard of the Government Palace, once produced all of the statute books by the Imperial Senate of the Grand Duchy of Finland at the turn of the 19^th and 20^th centuries. It is one of the relatively few buildings in Finland that have been preserved beyond the age of a hundred years.

Postcard campaigns, public gatherings, hearings, a visual profile, merchandise, concerts, art activism, a lawsuit against the state, protest marches, film productions, a website archive of press coverage and documents, and massive support from the Norwegian cultural sphere: “La Y stå” (“Let Y be”), a coalition of people protesting the demolition of a landmark building in Oslo, grew into Norway’s biggest ever people’s movement to preserve a building. We all know the outcome: Despite the protests, the iconic Y building, part of the government quarter of Oslo, Norway, was demolished in the autumn of 2020. The relationship between art and architecture was highlighted as particularly valuable by the movement in favor of preserving the Y building: Picasso’s two motifs, The Fishermen and The Seagull, executed by Norwegian visual artist Carl Nesjar, were literally cut off from Erling Viksjø’s trailblazing brutalist architecture, set aside to later be incorporated into the new government quarter.

The way the international community views welfare in the Nordic countries continues to inform the Scandinavian identity, even though Scandinavia follows a global pattern of diminishing public resources. Welfare research is a cross-­disciplinary field in which architecture is included as one of the systems that are studied in terms of housing, integration, healthcare, education and social development. The journal Nordisk välfärdsforskning (Nordic Welfare Research) was launched in 2016, the Nordic Council of Ministers has initiated a research programme and record high grants have been allocated to applied research on welfare.

On this morning in June 2025, several people have already settled in their spots in Vaterlandsparken, Oslo. Old friends are tightly clustered on the granite slabs, talking; a young man is alternately looking at the sun, the flock of pigeons hanging around the riverbank, and his mobile; a new father is resting in the shadow of a tree as the baby sleeps.

This was my third time in Canada. The first time, I drove a delivery van from New York to Toronto to deliver an architectural model for a competition. I was in and out of the city in two days. My colleague and I admired Mies van der Rohe’s Toronto-Dominion Centre and did not give the city and its history a second thought. When I visited Toronto for the second time in 2018 as a PhD candidate in architectural history, presenting a paper at a translation studies conference at York University in Toronto, I had a dissimilar experience. This time, Canadian Indigenous peoples and their experiences were more palpable.¹ Had I changed? I was now a PhD student, trained to be attentive to injustices perpetuated through space in a way my mid-00s undergraduate self was not. Or were the circumstances of my visit more conductive to such an experience? A conference with the title of “Translation and (de)colonization” would be remiss not to address Canadian settler colonialism by foregrounding Indigenous scholars. Its program, featuring Indigenous poets during breaks, dazzled an aloof architect-turned-scholar who had arrived in Toronto to deliver a paper about architecture at the UN headquarters. Or was the difference caused by Canada having in the interim gone through Truth and Reconciliation? The Commission published its report in 2015. Anthropologist Glen Sean Coulthard criticized the Commission’s “colonial politics of recognition,” where Canadian government policy recognized and historicized selective aspects of settler colonialism (the residential schools) without acknow­ledging it as an ongoing process.² Most striking in this second trip, however, was the ubiquity of land acknowledgement statements. I had never heard one at my US university and scrambled to produce one before my talk. Might my native Iceland one day become the only place where one does not offer such a statement, because there is no record of humans living there until Norwegians populated the island in the year 870 A.D.? Or might the scholars of the future acknowledge the arctic fox, the only Indigenous land mammal?

The night train rolls in to Stockholm Central Station at 10:17. I have travelled 13 hours through darkness, forests and snow. When I was growing up in Luleå, I made the journey several times a year along the railway that has linked together Sápmi – the Sámi region that stretches over northern Norway, Sweden and Finland and the Russian Kola Peninsula – and the Swedish capital since 1894.

Once I am in Stockholm, I head for Skeppsholmen. Exercishuset (the Drill House’) from 1853 looks inviting under the grey, overcast sky. Behind the oblong, ocher building’s tall windows, which were just recently opened up, neon lights form the letters A-R-K and D-E-S. The installation by A.M. Stockholm manifests The National Center for Architecture and Design – ArkDes – in the façade. Originally a training facility for the Swedish Navy, the building consists of two rectangular halls in a T-shape. When Moderna Museet first opened in 1958, Exercishuset was the location of museum director Pontus Hultén’s legendary exhibitions. Perhaps the most memorable of them was She – A cathedral from 1966, where Niki de Saint Phalle’s giant sculpture in the form of a woman filled the museum’s main hall.

In 1991, the Spanish architect Rafael Moneo won the competition for the design of a new museum complex to house Moderna Museet and what was then Arkitekturmuseet. The two halls of Exercishuset were retained and allocated for Arkitekturmuseet, which was also expanded to make space for an archive, a library, and office space. Since then, the institutions shared an entrance – until now. There is an eye-catching avant-corps jutting out from the middle of the building, where the entryway is once again in use. It is an appropriate indicator for an institution that seems to have found its home.

ArkDes is brimming with visitors on their Christmas holidays. In the main hall – Hall 1 – is the temporary exhibition Designing Motherhood: Things That Make and Break Our Births, an itinerant American show in collaboration with the Swedish researcher Karin Carlsson. The popular gingerbread house exhibition is in the same space. These icing-clad creations are ephemeral design of the purest sort. Even the exhibition medium itself is shaped by impermanence. For every new show there is a new concept: new furniture is designed, or new walls are framed – often several times a year. The requirements vary; this is both to protect the objects on display and to realize the visions of the architect and the museum director. It is a contrast to institutions like Thorvaldsen’s Museum in Copenhagen (1848) or Sir John Soane’s Museum in London (1813), where the unique character of each room creates the lavish frame for the art it contains.

A similar approach was used at ArkDes in 2021 and 2022 at Caruso St John’s celebrated mise en scène of Sigurd Lewerentz’ works: small, customized rooms with different shapes and color schemes were tailor-made to accentuate the exhibition theme – but in the usual temporary format. Tham & Videgård’s retrospective self-portrait show opened immediately afterward. In it, the firm’s work was presented through a monumental glass floor in the open exhibition hall. Before that, Dehlin Brattgård’s Boxen and the exhibition Public Luxury, designed by Nilsson Rahm, had occupied the halls in 2018. No matter if the exhibition architecture is flexible or specific; as a general rule, nothing remains after these installations. This time it is different.

But our visit starts with greetings from the north. The installation Goahti, the northern Sámi word for tent, consists of a frame of knotted tree-trunks covered in brightly colored textiles and was created by the Sámi architect and artist Joar Nango for the 2023 Architecture Biennale in Venice. Material from the site, that is, from around the Nordic Pavilion in Giardini, was used to create the kind of site-specific, improvised structure typical of Sámi architecture. Now Goahti is a sheltered corner in ArkDes’ largest exhibition room, Hall 2, where the video work Post-Capitalist Architecture TV is being shown. In it, Nango and the video’s director Ken Are Bongo analyze power relations in the Arctic region, with a focus on the mindful use of resources. Goahti has now been preserved for future generations as part of ArkDes’ collection.

The architecture firm Arrhov Frick is practicing the same circular approach. Johan Arrhov and Henrik Frick reused a large part of the material left over from previous installations for ArkDes’ new permanent exhibition. Eighty percent of the glass floor from Tham & Videgård’s retrospective and seventy percent of the steel from Boxen were reconfigured to form a family of tables and display cases: vertical and horizontal boxes with double plates of glass and plywood siding, resting on hot-dip galvanized I-sections. “The only things used were things that were already on site,” the architects explain.

The boxes are robust, multifunctional objects, as big as ping-pong tables, their dimensions dictated by the generous measurements of the glass panels and the steel beams. These mobile furnishings offer a framework for displaying the nearly 500 objects from ArkDes’ collection of original drawings, sketches and models. The boxes enable a new, flexible approach, where archive material can be changed easily on site in the exhibition; this will happen this autumn when the first selection makes way for new items. The rotation will help conserve the fragile documents, which attests to the seriousness of the conservational work here. This is also supported by the climatic improvements made to the exhibition halls, where technical installations have been carefully updated for the future. The modifications are imperceptible, and that is the point.

The architects describe the exhibition concept as “an open platform” and “a space to live.” The nomadic and exploratory approach is reminiscent of Arrhov Frick’s parallel show at the architecture school in Mendrisio, Switzerland. I wonder if the approach is a universal solution, one that works regardless of context? Or is it simply the firm’s signature? And how sustainable will the flexible concept be, ultimately?

The new permanent exhibition stretches over Hall 2 – the larger of them –a space the size of an Olympian swimming pool, with eight-meter-high ceilings. The exhibition is loosely divided into the different phases of architectural work, from vision to completed building. The first cases show travel images taken by female architects like Hillevi Svedberg and Judith Turner. The next show sketches of rugs for Gunnar Asplund’s extension of Gothenburg City Hall, in collaboration with Elsa Gullberg. Ralph Erskine’s vision of an ecological Arctic city (1958) hangs on the wall.

Then Léonie Geisendorf’s clear voice sounds out over the hum of background noise in the museum from one of several rooms separated with silver curtains. They are upcycled black-out awnings from the agricultural industry, mounted on a steel frame under the ceiling. Geisendorf’s work is presented inside against a backdrop of soft, light grey fabric; it is a kind of exhibition within the exhibition. In an interview from 1961 she describes her magnum opus, the Vocational School for Domestic Work and Sewing (1960, later St. Göran’s Gymnasium), with frankness and acuity. When the interviewer Lennart Holm remarks that the buildings is “large and visible” she patiently responds that it is impossible to build an invisible house. She summarizes her conviction that architecture’s exterior and interior need to speak the same language. The school’s characteristic façade composition – inspired by Le Corbusier – is an expression of Modernism’s confident pioneering spirit. After studying in Zurich, where the undersigned has been living for nearly two decades, Geisendorf made her way to Sweden. After the 1930 Stockholm Exhibition, Sweden was a functionalist Mecca that attracted young architects of her caliber. The fact that her sculptural Catholic church, designed for Kungsträdgården in central Stockholm, was never realized is still a source of remorse for many. A 1965 petition supporting the project bears witness to the engagement of her colleagues. Geisendorf could have built more, but ultimately the opportunities she had in Sweden were probably better than they would have been in Switzerland.

The next phase of design work is presented further into Hall 2: when sketches become concretized in technical drawings and models. The vertical cases here are closer together. Hötorgsskraporna (1962) take up an entire wall; the shopping center Shopping i Luleå (1955) prevails over another wall. Gunnar Asplund’s drawing for Stockholm Public Library (1928) hang neatly framed on the wall. On three long tables with sheets of corrugated metal are a model of Klas Anshelm’s Malmö Konsthall (1975), a drawing of the triangular pattern for Sergels torg (1967), and more. A façade sample in copper from Skellefteå Kraft’s headquarters (General Architecture, 2010) is on show. Four walls are dedicated to hydroarchitecture, with the enormous model of Filborna water tower in Helsingborg (Wingårdhs, 2020) in the middle. A voice suddenly rings out from behind the next glittering silver curtain: the singer Anita Lindblom, brings to life 1920s Berlin in a feathery cabaret performance. The scene was Club Trocadero in Malmö (1979), one of the extravagant nightclubs designed by the architect Abelardo Gonzalez. Visitors’ shoes sink down into a zebra-striped wall-to-wall carpet. Gonzalez’ world is a sensory experience of what else architecture can be.

Behind a third silver curtain, the public gets behind the scene with one of the most thrilling moments in archival work: when a box that has laid untouched for years is opened. This usually happens far from the public eye in a warehouse that is closed to visitors, and it can mean groundbreaking discoveries. The experience has moved out of the academics’ ivory tower under the title Unboxing. Every week, curators open up a new box of artifacts in front of an audience, thus granting access to an exclusive world. ArkDes’ collection, which contains around four million objects, is finally the focus. Beyond the performative aspect of the unboxing, the material is digitalized on site, illuminating the curator’s work and making it tangible.

Paradoxically, the work of the architect, which is the very reason for ArkDes’ activities, is less tangible. Visitors are guided by pedagogical texts about the nature of architecture as a profession, but as usual, architecture's bi-products – sketches, drawings, models, and photographs – dominate. I wonder what the exhibition is really trying to say. Using the design phase – sketch, projection, realization – as an organizational structure for the material in the collection seems logical, at least for me, with my background as an architect, but at the same time it is really rather vague. Perhaps a sharper focus on the objects themselves and their material preconditions would have been an option, rather than this attempt to illustrate an abstract process that the architect carries out like some kind of mythological animal.

Joar Nango, who features with his video piece, is an exception. Another exception is visible from Exercishuset’s gable window, where the architects’ work has left its mark on the site: In the summer of 2024, the artist group Mycket – with Katarina Bonnevier, Thérèse Kristiansson, and Mariana Alves Silva – created The Secret Garden, which links together ArkDes’ interior- and exterior environments. The installation has gone into hibernation now, against the backdrop of Nybroviken’s anthracite grey walls and the dark-roofed Vasamuseet on the other side of the water.

ArkDes’ collection is a treasury of artifacts that fascinate and provoke. The new permanent exhibition has a refreshing faith in the potential of objects to speak to the public, as relics charged with the architect’s aura. They are not interpreted, but instead presented rather open-endedly at the visitors’ eye level. Part of the architecture profession is shown, but solid narratives are avoided. It is easy to imagine why: focusing on the objects circumvents the criticism frequently aimed at the presumed elitism of architecture institutions. Personally, I would have liked to have been guided more explicitly through the exhibition, in order to link together the story between the showcases. But how does one describe the ideas that shape our time without stating the obvious?

The archive is a machine for producing memories, as the media theorist Boris Groys puts it. As such, the archive longs for life’s infinity. It sounds beautiful, even if biological life is by no means infinite. Maybe Groys is referring to the seeming infiniteness of human culture, of which the archive is a part. But which memories should be preserved for future generations? Creating a neutral account of reality is impossible – regardless of whether it is about the content of the collection or the Swedish architecture history it depicts.

The selection in the permanent exhibition is the result of important curatorial work – a process that inherently shapes the story of architecture history and our contemporary moment. It balances, giving space to recognized masters and foregrounding forgotten pioneers. The norms that have long since steered architecture history are gently challenged. But ultimately the exhibition’s demure character, its apparent neutrality, openness and mutability, are difficult to grasp. Like a ceaselessly flowing alpine brook, it will soon shift shape again, just like our moment in time. Perhaps that motion, that continuous renegotiation of architecture, is its true home. Perhaps the journey has just begun.

When I enter the new permanent exhibition, the first thing I see is a single, hard-fired, yellowish-green brick, subtly illuminated in a glass case. A few steps further in, I read that the block is from the era when bricks liberated the art of building from the limitations of wood, stone, hay and clay. The brick sets the tone for a mythologically structured tale about how architects shaped Denmark.

On the border of Ale municipality, in the northeast of Gothenburg municipality, there is a fascinating piece of architecture. In Vättlefjäll Nature Reserve, near Trollsjön, is a Sámi goahte, a peat hut. There are no signs leading to Vistet, as it is called, and anyone looking for directions has to ask around. To get to Vistet, one must walk along small paths through the forest of west Götaland, after having traveled to Vättlefjäll by bus or car. The path traverses a coniferous forest that feels southern Swedish with the way the granite bedrock appears now and then through a thin layer of soil, but more than anything else it is because of the tree species like oak and maple that we never see further north.

Green transition aesthetics. That might have been a good title for a text on the architecture of the so-called new industrialization of northern Sweden – the one meant to manufacture batteries for electric cars and environmentally friendly marine fuel, produce purportedly carbon dioxide-free steel, mine rare-earth elements and maybe even set up a server hall or two, all in the vicinity of the country’s most developed rivers and their fossil-free electricity production. Unfortunately, though, one cannot really talk of aesthetics; an aesthetic would require an overarching idea or some kind of community planning. A direction, quite simply put, and a clearly formulated goal. Perhaps the closest one can get to an emblematic building for this era is the cultural center Sara Kulturhus in Skellefteå. That is at any rate how it is intended to be seen. I will get back to that later.

Capriccio is a term used to describe the graphic works of the artist Giovanni Battista Piranesi. In the 1700s, in the midst of Enlightenment rationality, Piranesi opened up a fantastical world of tenebrous, labyrinthine architectural motifs. Etymologically, the word is rooted in the Italian capo ‘'head,’' and riccio ‘'hedgehog’' – a description of a ‘'confused person’s sudden, unpredictable impulse.’ I suppose I am also feeling somewhat capricious when I jump on my bicycle just after nine a.m. on the morning of the 9th of January and leave my little studio in Amager. Usually, I spend my working hours in the company of the craftswoman Kari Guddal and her gigantic tapestry loom. Today, I am going to Nordhavn to meet a different giant: the newly constructed BIG HQ (2023).

The latest work by the Icelandic architecture firm Studio Granda, designed by architects Steve Christer and Margrét Harðardóttir, is an idenpendent extension for the offices and meeting rooms of the members of the Icelandic Parliament (Alþingi), called Smiðja (The Forge). The building ascends like a geometric crystal from the earth with razor sharp outlines and forms. The entrance is marked by a peculiar indent carved out of the massive volume, creating an intriguing effect. Part of the indent takes the shape of a parabola with an interactive bronze installation by the artist Kristinn E. Harðarson, which appears to hang in midair. The façade of the building consists of horizontal layers of six different types of stone sourced from the oldest geological strata of the country. The stone is cut and assembled with great precision, andthe color palette reflects the Nordic landscape, with various shades of grayish-blue, as well as hues of orange-pink and ochre yellow, indicating the variations in weather and light of the cold winter months with a low-angled sun.

Walking through the woodland to this slightly eccentric project, whose precise location must remain a secret, heightens the mysterious atmosphere. A peering eye chiseled into the bedrock greets me upon arrival; a six-fingered troll holding a candle welcomes me inside.

We are in the very same green national park as Elding Oscarsson’s high-tech and highly refined Wisdome, but somehow also very far from it. In the adjacent neighborhoods, the debate is raging about beautiful or beastly façades; here however, the architecture is equal parts experimental and unassuming. An architecture that has emerged organically and blurs the boundary between client and architect, and that has managed to turn very few resources into quite a lot. The playfulness of the fairytale entryway continues on the other side of the metal door, which is adorned with a hammered copper sign that reads “Boiler Room.” The boiler room is a technical utility room of the typology whose threshold is rarely crossed by anyone but the building caretakers, and it’s virtually never the object of interest for an architect. This unexplored, grey area is precisely where the architect Anders Berensson, in close collaboration with the client, found a space of inspiration and the desire to experiment. With the transition from oil to more environmentally-friendly, fossil-free heating systems and with smaller heating pumps that generate less noise and odor, it turns out that it really is possible to create an inhabitable space down here. The result is a series of highly unconventional and deeply interesting spaces. With the exception of the many details and treasures adorning the walls and other unexpected nooks, Boiler Room’s design is pragmatic, and its allocated functions follow the logic of the many pipes that have been led through the room. The same stonecutter responsible for the welcome troll has also cut stone steps into the bedrock by way of an entrance. Once the old oil tanks were gone, more space was freed up deeper in the room. Now, there’s a large fireplace flanked by an even bigger seating area, a kitchen, and a loft where people can sit and socialize.

Instead of trying to conceal the fact that we’re in a utility room, Berensson gave the plumbers carte blanche. The pipes, primarily aluminum-insulated (the client lamented that they couldn’t remain exposed copper), wind around the room like a miniature Lloyd’s Building. The hierarchical relationship between professional roles is part of the character of the space, and one can discern appreciation for the many craftspeople who have taken their freedoms here. The cast-concrete bench with cushions upholstered in Fjällräven’s classic G-1000 fabric; the loft space constructed with lumber harvested from the adjacent forest and the handwrought steel railings – there is a certain rawness to all of it that follows the innate character of the space. The culmination is the unusually colored fireplace (”limoncello,” says the client); one by one, each brick was painstakingly dipped by hand and glazed in Jämtland, then carefully pieced together on site in Stockholm. One can sit around the fireplace here, alone or with friends, without ever contemplating being in a boiler room. The strangest space, however, has remained part mountain face: the toilet, which doubles as a small wine cellar. The flexibility of the space means that a whole range of activities can take place here; it can be used as a temporary office or for private parties, art exhibitions or performances. Standing in the loft and gazing down at the strange composition of functions that now comprise the room sets the imagination in motion, and one wonders what other room types have such a diffuse framework.

It doesn’t take long to understand that the client possesses an immense creative power, and has been an at least equally driving force as the architect in the continuous evolution of the project. Anders Berensson uses the space as a temporary office once in a while. When he comes here, he usually discovers that some detail has changed since the last time he was there, which he appreciates emphatically. The architect and client have known each other for a long time, and this is an important aspect. The relationship of trust creates a certain calm and a faith in the process. Large parts of the project were developed in discussion with various local craftspeople. Very little was “drawn” traditionally; rather, it was developed through on-site dialogue. When Anders Berensson and I talk about how important it is, as an architect, to dare to let go of control, to let the space and the architecture develop organically and through the craft, I’m reminded of meetings I’ve had in recent years with young Japanese architects, who work in a similar fashion.

Toshikatsu Ienari from dot architects put it in a rather dystopian way when he said that perhaps the architects of the future won’t need to excel at design, but instead develop the skills to facilitate, transmit and enable meetings between people. A new role for the architect, quite simply. What Ienari is after isn’t a further devaluation of the architect’s value or position, but rather a reevaluation of the architectural process and the relationship to the client. As a result of the past few decades of recession, many young architects in Japan are now working with renovations and community-based projects and building new platforms for their practice. The Boiler Room project may be tiny and hidden from the world, but the execution, the relationship to the client, and the passion for experimentation point to the potential of looking beyond the rigid framework that often surrounds Swedish architecture nowadays. In a hall overseen by the mountain king himself, the laws of convention do not apply. This space sparks both warmth and the imagination. Tip: A conversation with Toshikatsu Ienari from Hiroba Research Group: Politics of Living: https://youtu.be/X2GfogAZfLA?si=-ZKBrivw2wxQHx-9&t=115

The discussion concerning Sámi architecture and construction in the Sápmi region has intensified recently in Norway and Sweden. It is high time to open up this discussion in Finland as well. The parties engaged in construction within the Sámi homeland of Finland should be made to understand that their operations in the north mean that they are building on the lands of an ancient indigenous people. Sámi culture should be the premise in all planning and implementation of construction projects occurring in the Sámi homeland.

Under the pressure of increasing tourism and related construction, the industry needs to heed the Sámi people’s own conception of their environment and culture in order to find more sustainable ways to build in the Sápmi region.

According to the Finnish constitution, the Sámi people have linguistic and cultural self-government within their native region*. This entails that the Sámi have the right to have a say in the principles that are applied in building in their native region and to define what Sámi architecture entails, thereby advocating for the future of their community, environment and culture.

The ancestral lands of the Sámi are regarded as a national landscape in Finland, and the region has been the object of intense branding for the purposes of tourism. Lapland is the so-called “Wild North”, the exotic northern frontier of Europe whose majestic nature, snowy fells and aurora borealis attract tourists from the south to seek adventure.

Tourism in Lapland grew intensely in the 1960s. In 1966, renowned Finnish architect Reima Pietilä, together with Markus Lepo, presented a resort utopia in the municipality of Utsjoki. They named their project “Ailigas City”.The plans included facilities for a total of 6,000 visitors and permanent residents, including around a dozen public buildings of various purposes. All of the construction was to be implemented in concrete, recessed and terraced into the hillside of Ailigas Fell. The transport system relied on passenger conveyors and a monorail. A bullet train connection was added to the Porsanger fjord by the Arctic Sea, and the rail line continued onwards as a loop to Saariselkä and Angeli village, with a blind track to Halti. The railway, to be built from concrete units, was raised onto columns to allow reindeer and cross-country skiers to roam under it. The plans were justified with increasing tax revenue, new jobs, nature conservation and the good PR that the project would bring to the region. Despite Pietilä’s efforts to consider local features in the development as one of the architectural themes of the project, the Sápmi region, Sámi culture and the sacredness of Ailigas Fell for the Sámi people were completely disregarded in the plans.

Sixty years have passed since Pietilä’s proposal, but the planning practices in the north have hardly changed in that time. For example, luxury resorts with extensive development rights in the “pristine nature of Lapland” are currently in the works in Inari. The plans are still justified with the same arguments as Pietilä used 60 years ago.

To this day, construction projects in the Sápmi region are not assessed by asking how the project takes into account or puts into practice the principles of Sámi culture. The developers make promises to include considerations for Sámi culture but continue to fail to adopt Sámi culture as the premise of the actual planning and implementation.

Tourism-related development in Lapland remains – as does the tourism culture in the region in general – a mix of elements borrowed from different countries and cultures. Alpine chalets and glass iglus have been established as part of the Lapland imagery, even though they do not belong in Sápmi.

Regardless of the connotations and ideas and the seemingly hollow essence, the mythical Lapland that we have come to know is actually the living cultural landscape of the Sámi, where each and every place has its own Sámi name and significance, and these are part of the Sámi culture, livelihoods, history and everyday life.

The decolonisation has already started in other arts: Sámi artists in, for instance, film, the fine arts and music have taken control of the field, defining the boundaries of their own culture and creating new forms of expression. And yet, architecture built for the Sámi in Finland has so far only been built, studied and discussed from outside the Sámi culture. The significant buildings meant for Sámi people have been funded by the mainstream culture, designed by non-Sámi architects and built based on mainstream practices and traditions. In architectural discussions and representations, Sámi culture and heritage continue to be exoticised and reduced to simplistic symbols and shapes – reindeer antler or shaman drum motifs, lavvu shelters and goahti tent designs.

The most extensive and in-depth examination of indigenous Sámi architecture can be seen in the work of Norwegian Sámi architect and artist Joar Nango. His suggestion for a source of architectural inspiration is the ability ingrained in the Sámi to adapt to and improvise based on the conditions, terrain and landscape of their environment. This is an element of design that Nango refers to as “ingenuity”, a concept of his own making that insightfully captures the creativity with which indigenous peoples come up with solutions in the face of scarce resources and extreme conditions. Nango has also highlighted that the Sámi building tradition should not be defined through the lens of a simplistic imagery rooted in ethnic distinctiveness. Instead, he feels that it would be important to focus on the Sámi mindset – the unique ecological, spiritual and historical dimension opened up by the indigenous building tradition and the building site.

In recent years, Sámi architects from Norway, Sweden and Finland have launched varied collaborations and have convened at, for example, the Nordic pavilion at the Venice Biennale of 2023 as well as the Luleåbiennalen of 2024 to discuss Sámi architecture and building in the Sápmi region.

The discussion should not, however, be solely dependent on the Sámi community’s own initiative, as the support of the overall architect profession, museums and the entire construction sector is needed to correct course and steer the discussion away from the romanticising and colonialist approach.

The material cultural heritage of the Sámi is based on the concept of Duodji. In simple terms, one could say that Duodji refers to crafts and utility items made from varied materials found in nature, but for the Sámi people, Duodji is much more than that. In a 2024 interview for the Tate St Ives exhibition, well-known Sámi artist Outi Pieski described the profound significance of Duodji as follows: “Duodji is doing and making, crafting and creating. It is a holistic concept that preserves the Sámi philosophy, values and spirituality and connects them with practical skills. In Sámi culture, material is seen not as passive but as an active author. Material items hold energy and power. The energy comes from the material itself, the maker who has transformed the material through skills, care and love, and the user who has used and lived with the item and its power. Duodji is a way of revitalising connections between past and future generations.”

If we, instead, consider “architecture” as a concept and term, it may well be viewed by the Sámi as something that is othering, elitist and colonialist in many ways. The word “architecture” evokes connotations of post-war standard-design houses with which the lives, housing and building traditions of the Sámi were Finnicised and modernised, or the harnessing of the sacred Sámi fells as ski resorts with tall hotels and the utilisation of Sámi cultural otherness in tourism-related architecture.

However, regardless of how foreign the concept may be to the Sámi, they should take the lead in defining for themselves the principles with which construction is undertaken in their native region. Architecture and construction are a visible part of any culture and play a part in defining who we are or what we wish to be.Building in Sápmi should not be at odds with the Sámi values. Indigenous peoples are all wrestling with similar questions, and some are already much further along. In Aotearoa (New Zealand), the Māori have drawn up design principles for Māori architecture, which have been adopted into practice by, for instance, the City of Auckland.

The Sámi worldview includes a reciprocal relationship with nature – the power of nature is part of the power of a human being, and the wellbeing of both hangs on the balance between the two. In Sámi culture, people only take from nature what they need, in a sustainable manner, in order to ensure the renewal of natural resources. The scale and proportions of traditional Sámi constructions – e.g., lavvu tents as well as goahti and gamme peat huts – were based on both the size of the materials on hand and the weight of the load that a reindeer could carry. The premise was that the structure would eventually return to the natural cycle. When new building materials and supplies are not easily available, the existing structures, materials and items become valuable resources that can be adapted to new uses through ingenuity and tuning.

In a video piece shown at Luleåbiennalen 2024, Sámi architect Magnus Antaris Tuolja reflected that Duodji also provides solutions for building, stating that “in order to have Sámi architecture, it has to be based on our connection to nature and our cultural heritage. We don’t need to build like our ancestors once did, but we can imagine them within us and tap into their traditional knowledge and ideas.”

The discussion concerning construction in the Sápmi region and Sámi architecture is not limited to the Sámi alone.The entire construction sector has reached a point at which attitudes towards both materials and nature have to change. It just might be that we need not look too far to find solutions to the future challenges of construction.

*The larger Sápmi region and the Sámi homeland of Finland, which includes the municipalities of Enontekiö (Eanodat), Utsjoki (Ohcejohka) and Inari (Aanaar), as well as the northern part of Sodankylä (Soađegilli).

The built environment—its legibility and its ability to receive and accommodate everyday life in all its multiplicity—is the central subject of Jarðsetning. The book is inspired by the demolition of the Industrial Bank of Iceland on Lækjargata in downtown Reykjavík, a five-story concrete building constructed in the 1950s that housed the financial and lending operations of a rapidly growing society. Designed in the spirit of modernist ideals by the respected architect Halldór Jónsson, the building emerged during a period of great transformation and came to symbolize the progress of Icelandic society. Anna María poses probing questions about the origins and current state of the manmade environment, asking how a building—designed according to the latest architectural trends of its time and built with great care by skilled craftsmen—could become obsolete in the early 21st century and be condemned to demolition to make way for a new hotel in the city center.

With sensitivity, the author explores how the built environment either embraces or excludes those who live within it, depending on the circumstances. The work takes the form of a biographical narrative composed of short reflections, drawing on the author’s personal experiences growing up in an Icelandic fishing village and in Reykjavík, as well as her education in architecture, cultural studies, languages, and digital design and media—both in Iceland and abroad. From this background in a rapidly evolving Nordic society, she reflects on the traditions and cultures of other countries, including France, Denmark, and the United States.

She examines her lived experience in dialogue with architecture, urban planning, and systemic structures as they appear in cities where she has lived—Reykjavík, Montpellier, Copenhagen, Miami, and New York—offering ideas about how design can create conditions that may even undermine the well-being of inhabitants. In doing so, she presents a compelling portrait of the complex interplay between the forces that shape the built environment: society, politics, hierarchies, capital flows, commerce, and ideology—all of which generate discourses and conditions full of contradictions. These conditions are often sources of discomfort for residents, not to mention the risks they pose for the future of life on Earth.

Anna María also critiques contemporary trends that promote green priorities in investment and development, which are frequently driven more by profit than by genuine environmental concern. She argues that the most sustainable solution is always to reuse what already exists—including buildings—rather than demolishing old structures to build new ones under the guise of green design. “When a property becomes more valuable than the materials it is made of, a new chapter begins: the urban and economic-historical context mutates from a centuries-old tradition of caring for and preserving building materials and their value—reusing them—to one of squandering those materials. Because financially, it is no longer profitable to reuse them. Automatic demolition becomes part of an economic and ideological framework within which projected progress is linear” (p. 133).

One of the book’s greatest strengths lies in how the author connects and clarifies the ideology of social foresight and efficiency—once intended to secure a prosperous future of material abundance, social reform, and salubrious housing for Western societies. She places this ideology in direct relation to the conditions and challenges facing the world today. While architectural history often focuses on interpreting the works of individual architects, here the spotlight is on the impact of the “cacophony” that rises from the built environment and human society. Despite some outstanding individual works, the cumulative effect raises concern in the broader context, as ideas of value and quality based on shared human needs are often lacking. As she writes: “It seems, however, that it is the human—his life, experience, and actions—that is marginalized within systems- and efficiency-driven development rooted in post-war ideas of economical and healthy housing” (p. 132).

Another strength of the book is how the author situates herself—finding a narrative voice and vividly describing the built environment through the lens of her emotional life, conveying the experience of living within this manmade landscape. She investigates the origins of the environment, how societal systems and structures are formed, while also focusing on designers and other agents—how their ideas about the environment reflect their values and priorities. Furthermore, Anna María shows that the world around us is shaped by a male perspective and reflects the male-centered nature of society on both macro and micro levels, where, for example, all measurements are based on the scale of the average-sized male.

This discussion leads to an examination of how women have contributed to the design of buildings and urban planning—often in the shadow of more influential males and without receiving equal recognition. The review clearly highlights the lack of women’s involvement in shaping environments for women and other members of society, as well as the long struggle for equality in this field. The term “shadow architects” aptly describes the position of women in this context—referring to architects, most often women, who have worked in architecture alongside others in large design studios but have not always been credited as full participants or project leads. Anna María presents compelling examples of women who have approached design differently, focusing on the subjective rather than the objective, or on the emotional worlds created through their work. She quotes Charlotte Perriand, an architect who worked for many years with Le Corbusier and contributed significantly to his projects, reflecting on the profession after a long career: “The subject is not the object, it is the human being. The subject is not the building, it is the person inside it. How will he live? Live. To give life is the subject. To bring to life what resides within us” (p. 132).

In this critique of the principles underlying the ideology that guided societal development in the latter half of the twentieth century—based on efficiency in planning and thought—the author asks whether these principles might be changed, and attention redirected toward a more positive and healthier approach: “Instead of emphasizing efficiency in our environment and our systems, one could imagine an emphasis on creativity and fertility. Thus, it is possible to design an environment aimed at making us creative rather than efficient. For efficiency is not unconditionally desirable, even though it is not necessarily bad, as long as it does not consume beauty. Does not cripple creativity. Fertility” (p. 134). This critique encapsulates the idea that we have created the conditions we find ourselves in, and that it is up to us to shift our perspective and develop new ways to nurture a healthier life in harmony with nature and the environment.

The book is the author’s third work centered on the demolition of the Industrial Bank. The first was a musical ritual in which the building was ceremonially buried, highlighting how we celebrate the inauguration of new buildings with ribbons and speeches, yet pay no attention to demolition—something that carries significant costs for society, whether in terms of the financial maneuvers behind it, the cultural significance of the buildings, or the environmental impact of burying construction waste that is not reused. Following this work, she created a powerful film about the building’s demolition, offering viewers an intimate look at the methods and consequences of demolition.

Jarðsetning presents a personal search for expression and narrative about the everyday urban environment. The author succeeds in positioning herself as a girl, a woman, a mother, an architect, and a writer—expressing her voice and articulating reflections and contemplations about the manmade environment through words and photographs. This personal narrative is grounded in knowledge, understanding, and sensitivity, and on that basis, it offers a more compelling perspective on the complex interplay of forces and ideals from which the urban environment emerges—more so than fragmented memories alone could provide.

The autobiographical approach, which foregrounds the lived experience of the author and others, results in less emphasis on theoretical references or concept formation that might otherwise evolve within the academic field. Conversely, the work explores in detail how one can read the multilayered manmade environment and situate oneself within one’s own surroundings. This is the essence of the critique presented in the work. In her discussion, she also highlights the importance of empowering the public to read their environment and proposes a building literacy initiative—an effort that would indeed be truly compelling.

Jarðsetning is a powerful work that both educates about the built environment and introduces new ways of engaging with the experience of urban life. The book holds significant relevance for all—both the general public and the scholarly community.

When it comes to Greenland’s architecture and building tradition, many would say that there is a before and afterNaturinstituttet (the Institute of Natural Resources). When it was first constructed, it was monolithic; visibly elevated on a mountain just outside of town, the building volume and its position in the landscape certainly had some very powerful architectural qualities. Over time, these have been compromised significantly by additions and expansions. The markedly larger university was built directly adjacent to it. It included several design features that – unsuccessfully – referenced the institute, and today, the monolith lays there like a block of stone in a temporary quarry. Having designed something good was not enough for the Danish architects – and maybe “monolith” was hard for us to understand. So they explained to us that the inspiration for the building had been a sunbathing seal.

When the winning proposal for a new cultural center in Nuuk was revealed, they told us that the undulating façade portrayed the dancing northern lights. The form is interesting, but for someone like me who knows the aurora borealis, and not only from photographs, it is very difficult to see the connection. The circular main auditorium was inspired by the Greenlandic drum. Katuaq – as the center was dubbed – has always worked as a cultural center nonetheless. The main stage was placed at the lowest corner of the building and contains nothing even reminiscent of a fly tower. The floor plan leaves enormous areas unusable, and many functional spaces have to be used for storage. Buckets have been placed on top of the dropped ceilings to catch the melting water that drips from the overhead lights. Many of the center’s arrangements need to be held in the irregular foyer spaces, where the acoustics are atrocious, and now, many reconstructions and renovation projects later, the center – which would be better described as an event rather than an actual building – is primarily the background setting for a cinema and a cafeteria. What is left is the wavy façade and its supposed depiction of the northern lights: perhaps the overpowering image obstructed the architect’s capacity to do the job properly.

The central hospital in Nuuk needed a new health center; the Danish architect for the project later said that on his one-day trip to Nuuk, he had stood on the beach and watched the ice floes tumbling around in the swell These jagged forms became the shape of a health center –a shape with which the clinic has struggled ever since. It has never been a handsome building, and it still is not sealed. But it was nonetheless massively expensive. The “ice floes” were clad in copper, which was apparently the material that the architect deemed best for depicting ice.

The new terminal building at the airport in Nuuk was designed by Danish architects. They had no luck drawing a vertical façade this time either. They explained that they had been inspired by Greenland’s mountains and their steep, slanting cliffs. The fact that the mountains around Nuuk are extremely old and have a characteristic soft, rounded shape from eons of erosion is irrelevant here. On its interior, the terminal building is dominated by several large, seemingly glulam frames that are made of steel and covered in veneered plasterboard. The frames, the large ribs, are meant to make visitors feel they are in the belly of a whale skeleton, and make Greenlanders feel at home.

How can it be so difficult to design a building? A building fit for use. A building whose form aligns with its applications, by needs, technology, and economy. A building that converses with its location, where no strange explanations are necessary for why it is weird looking.

We Greenlanders do not feel immediately at home in whale skeletons. Among the many nations with whale-hunting traditions, ours is one of the very smallest. A seal laying on the ice is food; it is not an image of a home. Greenlanders do not associate medical visits with blocks of ice; why should we? And we seldom live in the steep mountains – we live on the flatlands near the coast and the sea.

We have a building cultural heritage, and we have several building traditions that have emerged from our climate, topography, infrastructure and the resources available to us. Taking that into account is evidently difficult for architects from abroad.

The white man’s burden is still hefty.

According to Kulttuurisauna’s website, the ‘cultural sauna’ is heated by a “wood-heated single-fired mass stove.” Building a stove like that is no routine procedure, so I went to Helsinki to take a closer look. Tuomas Toivonen, who owns and runs the sauna with Nene Tsuboi, tells me that it has probably been half a century since anyone has built anything like it. On top of that, there is no right way to do it. Good stove design is dependent on placement, function, and how it is used. That is why each and every stove is unique.

A Finnish sauna heated by a wood-heated single fired mass stove naturally calls to mind some rather archaic images. It might thus come as a surprise that the stove is fired with wood pellets via a small burner mounted on one of two loading holes on the base of the stove in the building’s basement. Wood pellets are fed into a tank above the burner through an auger pipe that comes from a large silo on the corner of the building. The room is a mishmash of conduits, pipes and tubes wrapped in tape and held by straps. For a visitor it is hard to make heads or tails of it, but it is not chaotic; more like an installation where someone is continuously, and with curiosity and creativity, exploring how to improve the machinery, gathering experience all the while. Gone are images of homey fireplace dens with stacks of firewood and dancing flames. This is the technical room of a tiny biopower plant.

Tuomas estimates that the stove weighs around 15 tons; in addition to three tons of sauna stones, this adds nine tons to the construction. The flue gases travel from the combustion chamber into the two chambers where the sauna stones are heated, then continue upward through tapered openings into steel cases with flue pipes that lead the gases to the chimney. Heat exchangers in the chimney extract additional heat from the gas, generating warm water for the water-borne floor heating in the bathroom and lounge area, as well as warm bathwater.

Effective use of wood pellets’ energy depends on a well-thought-out path for flue gases and a high combustion temperature. Tuomas holds up small, amoeba-shaped lumps of glass, confirmation that the oven delivers just that: ash burns to glass at temperatures above 1400 degrees Celsius. Any materials used in environments this hot must be chosen with care. The main components are heat-resistant stone, bonded with clay-based, heat-resistant mortar. The beams for the grate that contains the sauna stones are made of heat-resistant cast concrete. In time, even this material will buckle under the heat and need to be replaced.

The dimensions and design of the stairs leading to the boiler room were guided by those of the stairs by the fireplace in the Aalto’s combined house/office in Helsinki, I am told. Here, technical curiosity and expertise go hand in hand with an interest in things that are significant and culturally anchored, both when it comes to the stove and the building that surrounds it.

The name itself, Kulttuurisauna (‘the cultural sauna’), is a reference to an idea Alvar Aalto expressed in 1925. In a letter to the editor, he harshly criticized the Nero Stairs that had recently been constructed in the town Jyväskylä; he considered them geometrically rigid and insensitive to their surroundings, with poor proportions and oversized stone railings, but worst of all, the staircase was worthless because it did not lead anywhere. To remedy this, Aalto suggested building a cultural sauna as a monument to what he considered “almost the only cultural phenomenon characteristic to us” – the Finnish, that is. Not a sauna that was an extension of contemporary sauna construction, which Aalto described as a caricature of a lost tradition; no, Aalto was inspired by the dignity of Roman baths and offered a detailed design for a sauna structure with columns and fires. His description reaches an exalted climax: “There is not a single bathrobe, water container, or anything else in the sauna that is not the result of artistic work, purposeful, and simple. Everything, down to the last drop, is refined. Such should be the first Finnish cultural sauna.”

Tuomas and Nene’s structure is not a realization of Aalto’s descriptions. Kulttuurisauna is located on a quayside in Helsinki, and the environment is an entirely different kind of picturesque than the ridge in Aalto’s vision. Nonetheless, there is no question that the building harbors Aalto's ambitious intentions, albeit converted in terms of time and place.

Kulttuurisauna’s profile picture on Instagram is an extract of the French neo-classicist Claude Nicholas Ledoux’ famous engraving of a cannon foundry. The image shows a pyramid-shaped structure with a thick column of smoke being emitted from a hole in the roof that unmistakably expressed the central function of the stove, in line with Ledoux’ ideas on self-explanatory architecture. Kulttuurisauna also has a pyramid; this can be seen best in a color rendition of the building made by Nene Tsuboi. No smoke is emitted from the pyramid here in Helsinki, however – though on my visit, I saw a tiny bird taking a rest on the tip – but the connection to the classical remains pristine.

In its entirety, the building consists of three volumes and comprises just 300 m2. A colonnade of heavy, load-bearing round wood pillars gives character to the entrance façade. The row of columns oscillates gracefully between classic Nordic wood construction culture using round wood and the grandiose, classicist architecture narrative in which the building also stakes a claim. There is something of the vibe sensed in Asplund’s Skogskapell (Woodland Chapel) – a vibe that has placed it quite centrally in the Nordic architectural canon. With Kulttuurisauna, the effect is employed in a building constructed over a century later.

The main entrance leads into a lobby with a little kiosk that also serves water and coffee from the roastery that is just moving into a part of the building. Straight ahead is a lounge used for cultural events; it is also the home of the educational program New Academy, which holds courses in architecture and urbanism in collaboration with different institutions. The space has large windows that face a small courtyard from which one can look out over the water and plunge into the harbor.

The sauna is reached via ledged and braced doors that lead from the lobby to the changing rooms and showers. To my surprise, it is not particularly warm in the sauna, and nor is it supposed to be, I learn. Only when Tuomas pours water on the stove through a tiny lid on the cases described above does the warmth suddenly spread and fill the room. The secret is to pour the water extremely slowly, and some of the regulars who visit every day have truly mastered the technique, Tuomas says. Today is one of the sauna’s regular closure days, and several days have passed since the stove was heated, but the stones still have enough heat to boil the water.

The area Merihaka, where Kulttuurisauna is located, has a history of its own. It was constructed as a New Town of sorts just north of the historical center. There are a number of well-known housing blocks here that offer housing for the masses. In the midst of it all is a group of high-rises; in the first few decades after they were constructed the Finnish tax authority and others were based here. Everything is linked via a raised footway that cannot be accessed by car. The area is reminiscent of the Barbican in London, although this Finnish counterpart is somewhat run down today.

Merihaka’s history is something that has interested Tuomas and Nene, and they have explored it on many levels. They live in the area, and both of them have studios in one of the former public offices. Tuomas animatedly recounts the area’s local history, which is permeated with public plans and good intentions, cooperative businesses and trade union economies. The Finnish left-wing and trade unions are housed in many buildings in the adjacent area Hakaniemi; it was here that Lenin hid for several months in 1917, which was, of course, decisive for the success of the October Revolution. Tuomas and Nene got a long-term lease for a corner property that was originally destined to become a café that never materialized, and they constructed their sauna there. Soon, this otherwise rather secluded corner will become one of the city’s main thoroughfares; the wide-reaching infrastructure project Merihaansilta will bring a bridge so close to Kulttuurisauna that they recently had to tunnel under the foundation and rebuild parts of the northern end of the building.

A tectonic- and material awareness permeates the interiors of Kulttuurisauna. “Everything is built from basic materials,” Tuomas explains. “This is not a building assembled from objects.” An angle screw in the masonry serves as a towel hook, and when it falls out a little hand-cut nail is simply hammered into the hole to replace it. The walls are treated with limewash applied with a nonchalance that a mason or painter would never endorse, but that communicates an intimacy to visitors. The shelves are boards mounted in the masonry in small recesses, and the ledged and braced interior doors could very well be homemade, and small marks indicating e.g. locker numbers and women’s or men’s sections are engraved with a knife. The materials and details are what govern the design, rather than the building supply retailer’s catalog, and the atmosphere is truly pleasant.

In a building so rich with narrative and original solutions, it can be difficult to stay focused on the stove I originally came to Helsinki to study. But maybe that is just how it is with good stoves. They have a close dialogue with the buildings of which they are a part. The little pellet burner confounded me at first glance. But after having experienced the building and its surrounding location, the solution is practically representative of Kulttuurisauna’s character on the whole. It is a work that undogmatically reinterprets the relationship between tradition and renewal, and in doing so makes a strong statement about contemporary architecture.

Alone, at an adequate distance from the nearby barn and house, a building looms in the middle of a huge parking lot. Almost nothing sets the building apart from the car dealership a few kilometers away. The particular words written on the façade are the only indication that this is no storage facility or commercial property. The building is a two-story box with a façade of aluminum sandwich panel in standard modular size. The elements of the façade are finished in white and a color that is neither blue nor gray. The same color shows up in the car dealership and the storage facilities next to it; furthermore, it appears behind the wooden slats of the new shopping mall in the town of Farsund, which is the nearest municipal center. When I pause in fascination each time I pass by this building, it is not because of the architecture, either as form or result. Neither is it because it is particularly spectacular, and in any case not because it is so masterfully built. I hope it is not the building’s historical roots in non-architect architecture that cause my wonder—a recurrent fascination over the course of architectural history, from the Arts and Crafts movement to the theoretical orientalism of Architecture Without Architects, published in book form and at MOMA in the 1960s. The preoccupation with the design of non-architects continues after and between these milestones. Rather, it is perhaps the difference between the logics defining these types of buildings, and the architecture created by these logics, which makes it productive to write about this building. 

The building is situated along a concrete road surrounded by fields, cows, barns and hangars from WW2. From a distance, I notice private homes along the road. As with so many homes in rural Norway, these houses are decently refurbished—usually with an extension and at least one terrace, along with a big parking space and garage. We’re in “car land” between agriculture, cabins, and villages in South Norway. Driving around on the Lista peninsula, part of the Sørlandet region, it is hard to miss that this is the Norwegian “Bible Belt”. Scattered through the villages, neighborhoods, and across the landscape are meeting houses—chapels that serve as places of worship outside the ecclesial structures of the former state church. About 1.2 miles as the crow flies from the two-story aluminum box lies one such meeting house from 1913. It is single-story, built from wood and features a pointed gable roof. Some time in the 1960s, an annex was built containing a wardrobe and a toilet. The wood paneling has been replaced with old school Eternit boards, the carcinogenic asbestos siding that can last for eternity. The entrance of the annex leads to a long, narrow room, parallel to the main building, with empty hooks on the wooden walls and a minimal toilet space at the end. These empty hooks lining each wall speak of rationality and asceticism. The purpose of the house and the wish for a minimal use of resources are reflected in the annex and main building alike. The meeting houses are built and run through community contributions alone. Any changes made, and the totality of the building’s appearance, can—in contemporary vague «archispeak»—be characterized as an extreme «participatory» or «co-creating» project: real «participation and co-creation», rather than laws, regulations or economic matters, lies at the heart of the building’s existence.  

The annex leads into the older, fairly compact main room. Chairs in laminated wood with sun-bleached textiles in the seat and back are lined up in rows facing a pulpit with an image on the wall behind it. I’m told the furniture is from the 1990s. Before renovation in the 1960s, there was apparently some kind of gallery at the back of the hall to accommodate a larger audience. My guides talk about this space as a hub for congregating and for Sunday school. Behind the main hall is a lesser room for small get-togethers, furnished with sofas, tables, and a kitchen. The kitchen is an important part of the building. The 1960s interior and parts from the end of the last century have been well preserved. The curious details of the building are showcased with great enthusiasm. I get a look at the stairs, hidden inside a kitchen cabinet, that used to lead to the gallery and now lead to the loft.

More than merely showing visitors the premises, the guides function as the building’s walking memory. Aside from taking care of and repairing the building, they have also experienced it through their lives as young people, as parents, and as grandparents. It is a building where work takes place. In the 1950s, the main entrance was a door straight into the main hall. The sense of passing through the entrance was different from now: stepping through, you immediately became a part of the community, being observed whether you wanted to or not. In a building where both construction, repairs and use have been experienced throughout a lifetime, the 60-year-old annex is a historical place, even as it is spoken of as new and established at once.

The meeting houses are imbued with a sense of frugality. This iconic type of building is heavily represented in Lista, hailing from different eras and with different construction types, materials, and styles. Meeting houses can also be functionalist buildings from the 1960s. A few of these have prominent crosses on the façade, indicating their usage. Most of them do not. Originally, they were small, simple wooden constructions, gable-roofed, with symmetrical rows of windows along one of the building’s long sides. Only occasionally are the rows of windows present on both sides. Perhaps the biggest difference between the meeting houses and an average rural schoolhouse is that the latter have often gone to ruin, been abandoned or converted for another purpose. The meeting houses are, if not exactly well-kept, at least in fairly good shape through community effort. Originally, the neighborhoods and local communities built their own meeting houses, and they functioned and still do function as local community spaces aside from their religious purpose. With their own local place of worship, they did not have to make the one-day trek to the church before the age of automobility. On that note, it is a paradox that car usage defines new meeting houses to such a great extent today, knowing that the lack of means of transport contributed to their emergence. While the turnout these days is smaller than it used to be, the buildings are still operated. Within a few miles’ radius around the village of Vanse, Lista, there are about ten meeting houses to be found despite the low population count. Perhaps the disproportionate number of meeting houses indicates that they are still viable?

In 2015, a new building of worship was constructed in Lista. The original wooden, gable-roofed building of Lista Mission Covenant Church had an appearance reminiscent of the meeting houses, even if it had more annexes. This gray-blue box of steel and aluminum, on the other hand, would become the new devotional building for the congregation. Here, too, I get a tour by a local guide. Naturally, we meet in the big parking lot, which looks particularly large when there are just three cars around: that of the guide, my own, and a third car which seems to have been parked there for a long time.

The building has been split into three equal parts. In the middle of the building, there is a huge assembly hall with chairs and a table, partially endowed with double-height ceilings and large windows facing the road. There is a worship hall at the end without windows, but with a gallery for the public in the back and a stage in the front, featuring an advanced sound and lighting system. On the opposite side of the building from the worship hall, various activity and meeting rooms are located on the first floor. On the second floor, there is a big space for youth to congregate, containing a kiosk and offices. The interior materials are simple: vinyl floors running partly up the walls, with quarter round molding. There is drywall and paint, as well as 60x60 cm acoustic ceiling panels with visible suspension, even in the worship hall. Behind the big dining and congregation space, there’s a production kitchen. Where the congregation space simply overlooks the parking space and air strip, the view from the kitchen is more intentional, with abundant nature. From this vantage point, you can see the cows in the nearest barn and look out towards the fields, all the way to Lista’s flat horizon, with an old German hangar in your side view. 

Perhaps it is indicative of its importance that the kitchen is also the only part left over from the original wooden building. According to the guide, the old ladies of the congregation called for the solid wood kitchen to be preserved and moved into one of the activity spaces of this plasterboard, vinyl, steel and aluminum box. The second-floor youth space has a magnificent view across the fields and the hangar, and towards Borhaug, the nearest village.

This building somehow demonstrates both the same and the opposite logic as the old meeting houses. The building came into being at the conjunction of these two forms of logic. Just as in the early 20th century, this is a place to congregate, but it is also a building born of the 21st century. The youth of the surrounding area may arrive by bike, moped, tractor, or car—or even walk. But in this modern building, people are not immediately observed and gazed at in the way they felt seen and scrutinized in the wooden building of the 1950s. Here, people may retreat from the nearby villages and into their own buildings and spaces. The house is a congregation space with a 100-year heritage. However, it is built at the intersection of community effort and a neoliberal market logic that is dictating form, construction and materiality, influencing the programming of each room. Attracting reverends and youth today requires a different type of space from the one characterizing the wooden buildings. At the same time, the cheapest and simplest materials today are no longer wood and Eternit, but rather steel construction, aluminum sandwich panels, vinyl flooring and system ceilings.

I wonder what there is to be gleaned from this contrast or disconnect between logic and architectural form? This logic, I suspect, matters more than the non-architect architecture aesthetic I was worrying about. The architecture emerged from the interplay between the logics originating from the meeting houses and contemporary ideas. In school buildings, for instance, these logics are not preserved in the same way, and architecture has developed differently. School buildings manifest an evolution of architectural forms, pedagogies, and legislation relying on each other and shaping the schools we have today, distinctly set apart from those of 100 years ago. Lista Mission Covenant Church is more of a radical break in architectural form, while retaining the same forms of logic that created the meeting houses of old: community effort, frugality, congregation and devotion. This form of radical break may invite thinking about other radical breaks in architectural form. This break allows one to build, as does the Mission Covenant Church, without the need for vast construction budgets or to first imagine a whole new society. 

Architecture criticism often focuses on a newly finished building or one that is still in the process of planning and design.This particular piece, however, examines a building that no longer exists. In the spring of 2021, an office and commercial building designed by Kristian Gullichsen and Pentti Piha that used to stand at Gyldenintie 2 in Helsinki’s Lauttasaari district was torn down. Although the building no longer physically occupies the site, it will no doubt continue to make its presence known in discussions regarding the demolition of our modern building stock.

Designed by the renowned practice of architects Kristian Gullichsen and Pentti Piha, the four-storey building was commissioned in 1971. According to a building history survey, it was a free-standing and modifiable office block that was in keeping with the international architectural trends of its time and could be described as being constructivist. The design was governed by a tight budget, and the outward appearance was defined by the local detailed plan. Adaptability and convertibility informed all aspects of the design. The facades were made up of blue facade units, window frames and sun louvres that could be switched out to suit specific uses. This is to say that the facade composition was based on a game of arranging pieces, as it were, in which the users of the facilities had a say in whether a window, louvre or a solid unit would be slotted in place for their specific rooms. The floorplan was comprised of a column and slab frame made of reinforced concrete and divided into six-metre modules, which enabled the workspaces to be modified and the interior walls to be moved if necessary. Soon after its completion, the project was included in the Suomi rakentaa/Finland bygger 5 exhibition and catalogue (1975), the fifth instalment in a series that featured the elite of Finnish construction, signifying that the building was regarded as an exemplary work of architecture in its time. The building was also featured in the Arkkitehti/Finnish Architectural Review in 1973.

In 2001 and 2002, the Helsinki City Museum conducted an inventory of the buildings of historical and architectural significance in the Lauttasaari area, where Gyldenintie is also located, but the then thirty-year-old modern box did not have enough years under its belt to have made it into the safe harbour of historical inventory valuation. When the day of demolition finally arrived, the building had reached the critical age of fifty years. The presence of extensive renovation needs and the absence of a sufficiently long temporal, cultural and historical distance have sealed the fate of many buildings in recent years. When a building reaches the age of sixty-plus years, its value is already much easier to recognise.

When a property developer started to make plans for a new building on the Gyldenintie 2 plot, they had to apply for a detailed plan amendment that would allow the demolition of the existing building and the construction of a new one, in addition to changing the allocated use of the plot from commercial to housing. In accordance with the typical plan amendment and demolition permit process, the city demanded the drawing up of a building history survey. The developer commissioned the survey (2019) from Mona Schalin, and it has also been used as a key source for this article.

Among other source material, Mona Schalin relied on plan drawings donated by Kristian Gullichsen to the collections of the Museum of Finnish Architecture, as well as a 1973 article published about the building in the Finnish Architectural Review and the plan drawings stored in the archives of the city’s building authority. In addition, Schalin’s team visited the site and documented the building in various ways. Schalin was also joined by a representative of the Helsinki City Museum, Anne Salminen. In her building history survey, Mona Schalin states that the facades and general aspect of the building at Gyldenintie 2 had chiefly retained their early-1970s’ appearance but that some details had been altered. The windows had been replaced, and only some of the original doors remained in place. The terrazzo concrete surface of the stairs had been preserved, whereas the original terrace had been removed. Considering that the building was designed to be adaptable, one could perhaps argue that these alterations were, in fact, in line with the original design.

While the building was still standing, the blue colouring and the flat-roofed geometry stood out from among the older pale-rendered residential buildings with their pitched roofs. In the plan amendment that allowed the issuing of the demolition permit, this precise fact – i.e. that the building diverged from the surrounding building stock – was viewed as a challenge in terms of the cityscape, instead of regarding it as a sign of a historically layered fabric. The plan amendment states that “the challenge for new construction is to unify the area’s cityscape with a building that fits the area when it comes to its architecture, materials and design better than the current commercial building.” It further sets out that “the rationalist office building which deviates significantly from the surrounding building stock will be removed and replaced with a slightly taller residential building that is more in line with the surrounding cityscape as regards the materials and roof form.”

In addition to the age and appearance of the building, its location in the immediate vicinity of the Lauttasaari metro station was another nail in the demolition coffin. Lauttasaari is a highly sought-after neighbourhood, and the new metro line increases the value of the homes in the area. Indeed, the city planners are under pressure to increase infill development on sites with good transport connections. Thus, a six-storey residential building with a pitched roof that matches the neighbouring buildings was eventually erected on the plot. The new building was also taller, which perhaps meant that it was also thought to merge with the surrounding building stock in terms of the proportions.

The Gyldenintie case is by no means unique. A significant proportion of the Finnish building stock can be defined as modern, and the majority of these buildings were built after the 1950s. 1970s buildings are just now reaching the major renovation age, while efficient renovation and conversion practices are still being developed. Building preservation through plan notations is a slow process, and opportunities to recognise the cultural and historical value of modern buildings are being missed before the buildings have to make way for new construction and its insatiable hunger for empty plots. Moreover, modern buildings are often also burdened by the very justifications that their conception and construction once relied on. They are labelled as rationalistic, efficient and anonymous boxes that are exactly the same everywhere. Ostensibly, they represent a type of bland “normal”, and the recognition and appreciation of their special architectural features requires particular sensitivity and expertise from all parties involved in the valuation. Furthermore, the building at Gyldenintie 2 was also deemed to be ill-fitting to the cityscape. Instead of embracing architectural diversity, the city wanted to make the urban image more cohesive.

The genre of architecture criticism is quite heterogeneous, but in its most traditional sense, it focuses on reviewing and evaluating buildings or designs thereof. A project review seeks to spark architectural discussions and thereby lead to an analysis and assessment of, and often also improvement in, architectural quality. Once a decision to tear down a building is made, the said building typically falls off the radar of architectural critique writers. In my view, however, it would be important to also include the ghosts of the already demolished architectural past in the same type of in-depth, active and qualitative discussion that we are accustomed to seeing in the context of new construction.

We had arranged to meet by Brrum’s sculpture Och eller inte (And Or Not), but both of us end up wandering around and finish on opposite extremes of the oblong park Norra stationsparken in Hagastaden, Stockholm. But finally, we’re standing next to a well-wrapped package, inside of which the sculpture we came to see can just be made out through the joints. The unveiling is June, we learn. Och eller inte consists of six volumes of painted aluminum sheeting positioned on a podium in a recess in the ground. The sculpture is in the central strip of park that links the area from east to west, and it was designed by the architecture firm Brrum, as “an assembly of intersecting figures.” Its design is partly a nod to Rörstrand’s porcelain factory, whose production was here in the 1700s. Hagastaden is a new urban district that connects Vasastan in Stockholm and Solna, and over the past ten years it has grown by 6 000 homes (3 000 in Solna and 3 000 in Stockholm), in part by decking over highways and railroads. The district’s 50 000 workplaces are predominantly in the life science-professions: in healthcare, research and businesses in and related to Karolinska Institute and Karolinska University Hospital, Solna. Hagastaden has been criticized for the heavy exploitation in the district, with tall, dense buildings, narrow courtyards, and dark apartments. Sonia Hedstrand is a critic and an artist. She recently received a lot of attention for an essay on the task and situation of the critic. The essay “Konstkritiken har blivit lam och läsarna snarstuckna” (Art criticism has been paralyzed and readers are hypersensitive) in Parabol 5-2024 was clearly directed at fellow critics who seem more interested in following the canon than in evaluating the critical mission. Sonia Hedstrand (SH): None of my colleagues reached out after the article, but readers who have found it really interesting have. After all, I’m not addressing people who are on the inside of the art world. I am an educator; I write in accessible language and I address a broad audience. I find that many people in art circles are only interested in an internal conversation within that status-laden clique. But I think it’s a shame for art if it’s kept within that little circle. In general, people are reading less critique in the daily news. There is less space for critique than ever before. There’s research showing that today’s culture pages devote more space to opinion pieces, interviews, and documentary reports, and the subject matter is more celebrities, pop culture, tv-series and social media-phenomena, at the expense of space dedicated to art music, design, architecture, fashion and dance, and above all that there is less room in the press for research in these cultural areas. As a critic I try to bridge that gap. I’d rather write in a more accessible newspaper than a small, specialized journal. In the art world, people want to make a name for themselves, and oftentimes people who are already established have no interest in being pedagogical and expansive; they want to position themselves among one another. Part of the critic’s task is to explain the surroundings and background of what I see. Many critics retreat into themselves instead, pull back into what one could call “source: feeling,” where the critique just stems from a subjective standpoint: “I think about… I feel that this…” One is very far removed from the critical assignment. If you have something to say, you need to say it clearly. The first thing a critic needs to do is explain why the thing one is writing about is interesting. Why should a reader spend time on this particular text in a society that is so full of information?

Malin Zimm (MZ): There's this kind of parallel densification in critique and the urban environment. The same spaces are getting more and more crowded, there’s competition for topics on a culture page, and closely packed homes in a new district in the city. At the same time, it’s a question of democracy, the general public’s very access to culture, critique, homes, urban environments... How does one approach being a critic in the new media climate? SH You have to grab people’s interest. I usually start with some kind of image or an anecdote or something similar, something that sparks interest. Then one has to describe, briefly and concisely, where one is and when and what type of work we’re talking about; like in this case, we’re in this new residential district, and we’re looking at a public artwork commissioned by the city of Stockholm. A contextual analysis might ask questions like, why people are building in this district, what kind of homes are being built and for whom? Then I’d further contextualize the work by placing it in a historical, political, sociological, theoretical frame of reference. After that orientation I would describe the work more; its form, scale, dimensions, material and placement. As a critic, one chooses a point of entry in the labyrinthine advancement, and your particular way in is unique. That’s a part of the job one needs to have faith in: everyone can have their own way in, but now people want to read my approach to this work. It needs to be relevant, and you need to be generous with your knowledge. Your analysis needs to be a structured flow so that it sparks readers’ interest and holds their attention. Ultimately a text may look simple, but there is a lot of work behind each word, and in my case, 13 years of professional training and even longer work experience in the field of art. MZ What would you say are the lines that converge here, what point of intersection does this work describe? Is it possible to say something about the work of art we came here to see, even if it’s shrouded in tarpaulins? SH The interesting thing here is the broader context that surrounds a commission like this one. I would point to the trend we’re seeing today, where architects and designers are getting increasingly more commissions for public artwork. I think one reason for that is that the applications are so demanding.

MZ Is that a new phenomenon? That architects have started to compete with artists for public design commissions?

SH I’ve been seeing that trend in recent years. I think it’s primarily related to the applications being so demanding. Project descriptions, drawings, prototypes and models are a more integrated part of architecture training, while many artists have neither the educational training nor the resources; maybe also because they often work alone. This is, of course, problematic from the artist’s perspective. It used to be that art consultants did more of that kind of work, but nowadays artists have to do everything themselves. All of the demands are on the artist; children need to be able to climb on the work without hurting themselves. The work needs to be able to be hold up to washing and maintenance; it needs to contribute to an attractive environment; elevate the status of the neighborhood, and then on top of that it needs to communicate the municipality’s new core values...

MZ What do you think the consequences of architects getting more and more public art commissions will be for the urban environment?

SH If we take this work, Och eller inte, as an example – I have to piece together what I’ve seen in pictures and the positioning we see here, but I have to say that it looks incredibly harmless. It’s not going to make anyone angry. If it had been an artist’s work, something would surely have been taken to be controversial. Let’s say that an artistic proposition might have been “a crack in the ground,” very nice and symbolic; but of course, that would trigger reactions and questions about where money should be spent. What we see here is more architecture or design, a nice-looking form, abstract but “safe.” MZ Maybe it’s a side-effect of densification that there’s no space for conflict in an urban situation that’s already cramped.. There’s no mental capacity for controversy when there are so many values on the line, like a new urban district that has already been in the spotlight as a problematic environment from an urban planning point of view. But even a harmless shape will become part of people’s everyday lives; it will become a landmark and a meeting point.

SH For me, art and design are completely different things. Designers solve problems, artists create problems. That is the difference. Architects and designers already confront complex assignments in their work, and art should be able to move boundaries. MZ How would you describe the task of the critic task today and in the future? What forces influence the role of the critic? SH As a critic, one is at the intersection of two vulnerable fields: art and media. Making a living as a critic is very difficult, and earnings are the same as they were 20 years ago. People write faster and more sloppily, and the critic’s status is falling. In that context, I think that education becomes even more important. Developments in the 1900s that were driven by popular movements that were enthusiastic about culture and popular education have all but vanished now. Since the middle of the last century, the term art has gone from describing something to hang in a frame over the sofa to an experimental and exploratory field, and at the same time, popular movements have weakened and there has been a shift in values from work to capital. Simply put, in the 1970s it was cool to be a worker and look like one, and today the ideal is to be a filthy rich influencer. The left and the right have both completely abandoned the cultural and educational ideal. There’s been a development in the workers’ movement and on the Left where art is seen as something upper class, at the same time as it’s become common to invest in it. Where does one find critical performance art? Most galleries want to show objects that will interest buyers and collectors. I try to revolt against that whole development with my texts. I’d like to start up an art criticism program at the art academies. Today there are short courses at the universities related to art history, but I think we could get more informed critique from people who are trained in both theory and practice. MZ What's happening to people’s critical capacity in our current time? How can we develop our critical vision as citizens? SH In the era of predatory capitalism people are working more and more, getting more and more stressed. People live precariously, don’t have permanent employment, safety nets are eroding. People escape from that and unwind with easy, undemanding entertainment. But it consumes our ability to pay attention. Our capacity for concentration has decreased greatly. That affects our health, our ability to organize ourselves and become involved in politics, art, public movements and culture. As a critic in this society, I need to be the attentive observer, the stand-in citizen. So, the critic’s task is becoming increasingly important, but I can also see that it is given increasingly less space, less funding and less status. In connection with the Swedish government’s presentation of its vision for culture policy in mid-April, I wrote about how culture has become an experiential industry whose function is to support other industries. Creativity has become a basic industry to exploit for experiences. But art isn’t entertainment; it’s the opposite. Unlike easily digested TV-series, art demands focus and effort from us as observers. Chewing it can be hard work, but it’s nourishing, and in return art can change your life, your way of seeing and thinking.