BEING AT ONE – THE DREAM

The report on A Dutch house by architect Paul de Ruiter – see: https://www.wallpaper.com/architecture/residential/dutch-house-paul-de-ruiter-netherlands - can be seen as an example of the state of architectural journalism today. The issue is that the words are presented as a hagiography, making statements that seem to assume that the assemblage of the words is sufficient for the circumstance to be so, when things might be seen to be otherwise. We are presented with a preferred set of words that seem to want to shape the chosen way of seeing.

The building, referred to as ‘Villa Kogelhof’, is architecturally identified more fashionably as ‘Villa K.’ It is located in Kamperland, in the district of Noord-Beveland in the flatlands of the Netherlands: see Google Earth Images below. Google Images presents a greater array of illustrations of the project than this report, both as photographs and drawings. One hesitates here, for the word ‘drawings’ no longer seems appropriate to describe computer generated illustrations. ‘Drawings’ suggests some sense of personal involvement, with the hand guided by thoughts and feelings modelling outcomes. CAD is totally ‘hands-free’ in this sense, and is the output of technology and its algorithms that provide results that amaze even the author. CAD stands for ‘computer aided design,’ but it might better describe the outcome if one reads this as ‘computer aided drafting.’ It is a tedious and boring description, but so is the process that gives ‘perfect’ results that demand copious ‘Oohs and Aahs,’ and degrades the work of the ‘free’ hand.

The text begins with the declaration that the building is perfectly at one with the flatlands, whatever this might mean. It is certainly alone, and fulfils the prime requirement of Modernism – singularity – see: https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2023/05/architecture-is-not-singular.html, https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2019/10/the-rose-seidler-house-private-visions.html, and https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2020/02/villa-mairea-city-of-solitude.html. As for being perfectly at one, AI tells us that this means more than being alone. Google’s Gemini notes that:

"Perfectly at one" means being in complete harmony, agreement, or unity with something or someone. It implies a state of perfect alignment, where there are no disagreements or conflicts. The phrase can be used to describe feeling in tune with nature, being in agreement with another person, or achieving a state of complete understanding and acceptance.

This is somewhat alarming, as the author describes the project as this unapologetic, sharp-angled streak across the landscape, and one sees it as a stark contrast to the nothingness of the open sky and the distance of land. One has to ask: what is the project not apologising for? It could be assumed that the apology might be because of the building’s being there in this arrogantly expressive manner, boldly present as a sharp-angled streak.

The fact that, as the text notes, the house - or should one say ‘villa’? - barely touches the landscape, is merely a simple descriptive statement as the report explains that The villa’s main body hovers 4m above the ground, its two ‘legs’ housing a concrete staircase at one end and forming a steel V-shaped truss at the other. The words seem to have nothing to do with the Glenn Murcutt refrain of ‘touching the ground lightly’ that suggests some subtle ‘aboriginality’ and spiritual care for the land; and this so-called ‘hovering’ does not necessarily mean that this brutal mass is elegantly ephemeral, in spite of the clever engineering, making it at one with any landscape in any way, be this visually or ecologically, with an apparent, minimal physical touch. The project has a greater impact than is immediately obvious. The text reports on the underground car parking, but does not illustrate it: you reach an underground car park via a sloping driveway.

The author seems to be guiding us, edging us into a way of seeing this project; and the architect appears to be sharing in this directive strategy too: ‘The house is designed to blend into the landscape,’ says architect Paul de Ruiter. ‘I wanted it to be non-intrusive, integrated in the panorama and sky.’ It is as if this might be so when to all appearances the opposite is happening, in spite of the astonishing suspension on stilts and a glass box, a surprise that only seems to exaggerate the intrusion.

Just what the architect wanted, and what has been achieved can be two different things. Architectural journalism seems to have forgotten about any concept of genuine critique and review, and appears to have itself become at one with the ambitions of the architect, who now seems keen to encourage others to see things only in the way he conceptualised them, envisaged them, rather than letting folk discover and decide what one has before one’s eyes. It could be said that there seems to be some collusion here; or is it naive enthusiasm?

The photographer can be seen to be a part of this strategy too, with clever images framed and shopped to create more than what the architect might have perceived to be possible. Four ghostly images are published with this Wallpaper report; many more images are available on Google Images, captured with a set of different lenses, and at all times of day.

The four published images in the article.

As if to overcome the critique of seeing the building as a brutal mass at odds with the world, the text tells us not to be concerned: Yet, for all its modern brutalism, its floating, white, no-nonsense, glass-enclosed body does integrate with the landscape. One is left wondering how this assertive, glassy bulk with its dramatic stance, might meld with the delicacy of a fine infinity filled with transient light, passing clouds, and momentary shade, with all the moods and impermanence of weather and time.

That Permission to build a house on the land was given only on condition that it was returned to its pre-agricultural state, suggests that there was some requirement for the building to be at one with these flatlands, and that all efforts of description might go towards proving that this is so. Little wonder then that the eye persuaded to see things in this way, differently to what looks like an intrusive, solid, shiny mass muddling with the ambiguous subtleties of place, stridently demanding that its static presence and bespoke brilliance be noted; that its astonishing Modernity be recognised as pure creativity standing indifferently, differently; alert and aware of itself; proud of being at one – alone.

The suggestion seems to be that the glass reflects the landscape as it encloses one big void, with floor-to-ceiling glazing, creating the illusions of continuity that mirrors give us. These tricks with seeing, the games that mirrors play, are just this, and do little to truly engage strident mass with the more gentle realities of land and sky; of landscape, even though words that describe this effect of a set of reflections might appropriately record the fact of physics, rather than the emotive presence of being there.

One eventually comes to understand that one is involved in a deception devised by shiny surfaces, and soon begins to read, to become aware of the actual solidity of the form, its static identity and mass, and to become more distracted from any entrancement by this realisation because of its ingenious guile, than might be otherwise perceived with a more straightforward expression that does not try to play clever tricks on the eyes; flighty experiences that can be skilfully recorded for publication by the camera to prove the point. This situation could leave one in a confusing no-man’s-land, with one knowing the experience of the place, but having the ‘proof’ of things being otherwise declared in the published text and images.

Strangely, the text makes no comment on reflections, be these either those involved in the exterior melding, or the interior nuisance, but the interior images do raise an important issue by highlighting the distracting annoyance of the reflections that can be seen in the published photographs. It seems that this is a matter that is difficult to avoid with any camera angle. Philip Johnson pointed out the problem with his Glass House: that at night it was a sea of dazzling reflections. Special night lighting was designed so as to overcome some of these problems – see: https://www.wallpaper.com/design-interiors/bassamfellows-philip-johnson-richard-kelly-lamp; but one can see the matter becoming a concern even during daylight hours in the photographed interiors: the glazing on one side of the building is reflected into that on the other, creating a glare that one has to ignore in order to appreciate the vistas. Here one has to learn not to see, just as this author apparently has; yet the reflections are there. One wonders: what might they be like in the evening? One knows what a train interior is like at night, and how the walls of a mirrored lift confuse the dazzled eye; might this one big void, with floor-to-ceiling glazing, become a jumble of reflections to infinity after dark? Surely these words would not be used to prove that the building is perfectly at one with the flatlands stretching, as they do likewise, to infinity?

This approving, praising, agreeable popular writing in architecture that ‘sees not evil,’ seems to be the new norm. The problem is that without proper review and critical appraisal that do not necessarily mean total negativity, just the possibility of perhaps pointing out some issue or two while praising others without a singular intent to guide any way of seeing, just to develop the raw rigour of the review, architecture is itself left without any guide, just as a set of personal preferences; presences identified with arrays of politely descriptive words and clever photographs that might have been what was intended, or more, but could have nothing to do with the reality. We are likely to be left with a fantasy, ‘maybe’ buildings to consider as a pretence. If we are to learn from each other as we all grapple with our tasks, then we need to be much more honest, as this self-congratulatory approach to architecture that seeks out only confirmation and adulation while rejecting all and any refutation, will lead us into a dream world, something like the dream recorder might conjure up: see – https://www.designboom.com/technology/ai-recorder-replays-dream-videos-recall-visualized-sleep-device-modem-08-16-2025/; and there will be no one willing to point out the foibles and futility of the situation, leaving everyone in the preferred haze of an indulgent nothingness admiring itself; a state that could be said to be all at one with the world, with, sadly, everyone believing this to be so.

 THE ARTICLE

Explore a Dutch house which reframes brutalist architecture’s relationship with nature

A Dutch house by architect Paul de Ruiter is perfectly at one with the flatlands of the Netherlands; we dig into the Wallpaper* archive to revisit this unapologetic, sharp-angled streak across the landscape.

(Image credit: Misha de Ridder)

By Alexandra Onderwater

Balancing on little more than two slim concrete posts, Villa Kogelhof barely touches the landscape it sits in, a 25-hectare wild wonderland typical of this seaside region in the south-west of the Netherlands. ‘The house is designed to blend into the landscape,’ says architect Paul de Ruiter. ‘I wanted it to be non-intrusive, integrated in the panorama and sky.’

This ambition could have led to organically sculpted architecture, with materials disguising themselves among plants and trees, wood and stone. Instead, de Ruiter opted for a long horizontal volume of concrete, metal and glass. Yet, for all its modern brutalism, its floating, white, no-nonsense, glass-enclosed body does integrate with the landscape.

Step inside this unapologetic Dutch house

Not many people make it to the district of Noord-Beveland, and fewer still to this house’s exact location, Kamperland. Despite the Netherlands being both small and flat, the Dutch seem to struggle covering the psychological distance to the second of three interconnected peninsulas that make up the south-western province of Zeeland. Whoever does make the journey, though, is charmed by the striking location. Surrounded by flatland, it is as far away from urbanity as one can get in this country. It is also within a stone’s throw of the North Sea and the 9km-long Oosterscheldekering (the Eastern Scheldt storm surge barrier), the largest of the area’s 13 Delta Works dams, locks and barriers.

The approach to the villa is along a deserted road across the estate. After a ten-minute drive, you reach an underground car park via a sloping driveway. For a high-density country like the Netherlands, such a prologue is astonishing. In fact, the site is part of a larger programme initiated by the government, which aims to connect regional ecological zones throughout the country. The current owner bought the site, once farmland, five years ago. Open to the public, it is a protected habitat for animals and plants and a major tourist draw in the area. Permission to build a house on the land was given only on condition that it was returned to its pre-agricultural state.

Villas are not what Amsterdam-based de Ruiter specialises in. He has devoted most of his career to developing and implementing designs that enhance sustainability in buildings – his own studio’s office comes with a generous patio and an inventive cooling and heating system regulated by a two-tank air circuit, the volumes stored under the premises. But he takes on a private villa or two each year, especially if they pose new challenges – and this one certainly did.

The sheer numbers impress. The planting of some 71,000, six-year-old trees hint at the future of the estate as ‘a villa in the woods’. Plans also included digging a generous rectangular pond, requiring the removal of 70,000 cubic metres of soil. Circling the whole area by foot takes an hour. Although his office frequently does larger-scale works, de Ruiter admits the project was quite elaborate for a villa.

The client, an international trader in onions, camped on-site during the three-year building process, while his family sought refuge elsewhere. His shower was a ritual dip in the pond. Now it is part of the view from his office at the north end of the structure. ‘He likes to be on top of things, and it’s always been his dream to build his own house,’ says de Ruiter.

The villa’s main body hovers 4m above the ground, its two ‘legs’ housing a concrete staircase at one end and forming a steel V-shaped truss at the other. The house itself adds another 4m in height. Built like a bridge, the 40m by 8m interior reads as one big void, with floor-to-ceiling glazing. Sliding doors and curtain rails offer the residents, a family of four, the option of privacy in some areas.

Structural elements are integrated and invisible as much as possible. A climate-active façade (a special air cavity has been incorporated into it to help control temperature) means the ventilation and heating inside the house adjust to respond to the weather.

The owner has plans to make the house entirely self-sufficient; solar panels installed on the roof will be the first step towards that aim. With birds already flocking to the immense ‘garden’ and deer and smaller animals finding their way back to Kogelhof’s nature reserve, it would be fair to say that at least the better part of the client’s extravagant mission has already succeeded.

This article was first published in the April 2013 issue of Wallpaper*

https://www.wallpaper.com/architecture/residential/dutch-house-paul-de-ruiter-netherlands

GOOGLE EARTH IMAGES

Street View: view from northwest.

View from north.

View from southeast.