Adam's House in Paradise

A cluster of 1960s courtyard houses in Lambeth, London. 

The courtyard house may be ancient, but it is still contemporary and modern. This became apparent to me on a recent trip to London, during which I was fortunate enough to stay with a friend who lives in an exquisite single-story L-shaped house with its own private courtyard. The house was originally built as part of the Cotton Garden housing estate in the 1960s and forms part of a cluster of 21 courtyard houses in a park.

Adam bought the house a decade ago and renovated it with the help of Cox Bulleid Architects, converting it from a compact and efficient three bedroom house into more of an open-plan house to suit his lifestyle. The remarkable thing about the renovation is its invisibility: The house barely looks like it's been renovated, updated or restored in any way. Such resilience attests to the exceptional quality of the original design, by none other than the Architect's Department of the London Borough of Lambeth. 

From the exterior, these houses barely look like houses. With their long stretches of one story high solid brick walls in which the only exterior door or window openings occur at offsets, and with trees poking out from behind, the architecture resembles a garden wall (which in fact it is, in part). The idea of unifying the architectural wall with the garden wall can of course be seen in ancient Pompeii, Mies van der Rohe's Barcelona Pavilion as well as his unbuilt courtyard housing schemes of the 1930s, and, in the 1980s, the Casa das Artes in Porto, Portugal, by Eduardo Souto de Moura.

It is worth noting, given the contemporary architectural climate, that there was once a time when talented architects sought to make well-designed housing accessible to a majority of people without seeking fame and notoriety. What a concept.

Cotton Garden Estate courtyard houses and tower blocks

Adam's house

The large sliding door into the courtyard is part of the renovation, as are the
doors of the other wing, which were previously windows.

Image courtesy brutalismandbooze.blogspot.com

Garden and Gaffe: A Hotel by Jean Nouvel

“The city is like some large house and the house in turn like some small city”
-Leon Battista Alberti

If there is one type of "house" that comes closest to Alberti’s “small city”, then surely it is the hotel. Like a city, a hotel is comprised of both private “residential” space (in this case temporary residences) and relatively public functions; the private realm making up the representative bulk and consisting of largely repetitive units while the more public lobby, conference spaces, restaurant, and so on are monumental, singular spaces of representation. The ultimate mixed-use building type, a hotel is a place where guests stay for a variety of reasons, be it a travelling sales rep hoping to strike a business deal, illicit lovers having an affair, criminals evading the police, academics at a conference, or spies on an intelligence-gathering mission. Anything can and everything has happened in hotels: Watergate, John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s Bed-ins for Peace, Dominique Strauss Kahn.

It is no surprise, then, that the hotel has become in recent times one of the most architecturally reinvigorated types of buildings. The drab, beige hotel of the nineteen seventies and eighties, where sameness, familiarity and the offer of a cozy “home away from home” was the ideal, is seemingly a thing of the past. Hotels have instead become places where people seek a memorable experience that is precisely different from the familiarity and routine humdrum of home. As an “experience” space available to a majority of people, the hotel can also be seen as a democratization of the pleasure palaces of the aristocracy of previous centuries.

The Renaissance Barcelona Fira Hotel by Jean Novel and Ribas & Ribas is, like many palaces, characterized principally by a garden, that most sensuous space of pleasure and temptation since biblical times. This garden, however, climbs up a 26 story high atrium space that is completely open to the exterior on one of the sides of the tower, which forms a “U” shaped floor plan in which the rooms are accessed by garden-facing galleries that are open during three seasons of the year, and that are separated from the garden in winter by means of transparent roll-down barriers.

A single staircase climbs up the atrium along a different trajectory at each level change, connecting galleries as well as bridges, platforms, and a over a hundred planter boxes containing ten different varieties of palm trees and other plant species. It is a delirious, seemingly endless space that would make Giovanni Battista Piranesi proud, and which redefines the late-modern hotel atrium made famous by architect-developer John Portman.

It is the exterior openness of this atrium that sets it apart from any of  John Portman’s, however. In this atrium, there is no wall-to-wall carpeting, no chrome, and no air conditioning. Instead, there is a gentle breeze and the sounds and framed view of a city beyond. The leaves of the palm trees move in the breeze, and the hotel rooms open directly onto an exterior garden and not into a long, dim, anonymous corridor, making it tempting for guests to leave the door open when in their rooms.

Unfortunately, however, the theme of “palm tree” has been taken by its architect just a little too far. The palm tree-shaped windows of most of the rooms are gimmicky and goofy. A gaffe. Those windows are precisely why it’s a good thing the doors of the hotel rooms open directly onto the memorable garden--and city--outside.