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.

LEARNING BY JIGSAW

The faded box in the charity shop declared the contents in bold Roman caps: A Collector’s Wooden Jigsaw: Landranger Map Jigsaw Uyeasound Shetland. The added note recorded that this was an Ordinance Survey map. If there is one good thing left in Britain today, it is the mapping service. These maps are exquisite examples of clear communication of complex matters, at all scales. The jigsaw was purchased with the thought that one might learn more about this portion of Unst by having to not only study the parts, but also to locate them. One was concerned that the illustration on the box was illegible. It seemed to have been the map, but had shaded, smudged shapes scattered across it. Still, knowing something of the area, one assumed that there might be enough held as memory to guide one in assembling the pieces.

The box had been opened to reveal no other illustration, just a green bag with what one hoped contained all of the pieces. Once home, the fine print on the rear of the box was read; this was a Wentworth puzzle. I had just completed one of these a couple of weeks ago. This other jigsaw was a puzzle made form a picture of a traditional cottage in a snowy landscape. It came with the promotional blurb that declared that it was 250mm x 350mm when complete, with 250 pieces, which included 15 novelty pieces called ‘whimsies.’ These were shapes that related to the landscape and confused matters by including straight edges and unusual profiles in the internal jigsaw pieces.

One wondered if the map might have these special parts. Reading the faded text on the box cover, the text used almost the same words: novelty shaped ‘whimsies’ based on Ordinance Survey map key symbols. The thought occurred that this, along with no illustration, could make things tricky. One had discovered in the fist jigsaw that it had been cunningly subdivided. All corners had been cut from the corner intersection diagonally, doing away with the usual ‘starter’ pieces; and some of the edge pieces had, at times, been similarly taken to a point. Along with the inclusion of straights in the body of the jigsaw, and the ‘whimsical’ pieces, one could see that this map might become a real challenge; tricky: but it was started.

All the pieces were tipped out of the green bag into the box and the lid. The straight pieces were collected, and the remaining pieces were turned up; the assembly had begun.

Making the frame started in a very piecemeal fashion, with bits here, and bits there. In the meantime, looking at the parts, one could see distinctive reds and yellows, and dotted lines. These pieces were collected. Slowly patches of the map were assembling. One could read the names of the locations, so could make a rough guess at where the interim assemblies might sit in the frame. The problem was that the frame was incomplete, and there was no indication of the scope or scale of the map, just the final jigsaw size. It was titled ‘Uyeasound,’ which is in the southern part of Unst, but one had already seen pieces with ‘Gloup’ and ‘Baltasound Airport’ on them, which meant that much more than Uyeasound was included in this illustrated part of Shetland: the map must cover the northern tip of Yell and nearly the whole lower one third of Unst. This meant that the map included some areas that were not so well known, but the parts kept on going together.

The red and yellow roads of Yell were the first pieces that came together and actually linked up to a portion of the left hand border. The other red and yellow roads were those of Unst. These zones formed a backbone around which other pieces could be assembled.

While names of known places were constantly being discovered, the actual placement of these pieces had to be provisional as more was discovered about the jigsaw itself. One found that the task of assembling the jigsaw took over from any mapping education, with shapes, lines, and colours being analysed for matches rather than any geographical understanding being revealed as a clue.

The pieces did prove to be tricky, meaning one was constantly picking up parts and putting them back, and sliding assembled portions around once the size and scale had been discovered. It was not until the very end that the frame could finally be completed. The designers of this jigsaw had been extremely cunning in disguising the roles of what are usually distinctive parts.

The jigsaw came together as masses of land and sea in bits and pieces, with the distinctive lines of roads, tracks, and ferry routes being obvious guides to start with. The text in the lower right-hand corner was similarly eye-catching, and was abled to be assembled. Once the broader set of parts had been located, one could then use grid references revealed on some pieces to locate these otherwise anonymous bits of the whole.

The challenge continued right to the very last part. As more pieces were put into position, the piecing together of the whole sped up with a satisfying resolution. One came to understand more about jigsaw thinking than learning about the area. The only one thing discovered was that the northeast portion of Yell is a nature reserve.

Uyeasound, Unst, Shetland.

Now that the map is complete, it can be read in different ways. One can read it as any map, and discover locations and names; one can analyse the land massing; the islands; the graphic presentation; the jigsaw cutting; one can look for the ‘whimsies;’ and more. The whole task exercised a process that intrigued, being an amalgam of reading maps and completing a jigsaw, both of which are independently enjoyable, making this a truly pleasant and rewarding challenge.

It is interesting to note that the design process involves much the same strategy, discovery, surprises, and satisfaction as was experienced here.

SPIN & SILENCE: ON FAKING OUTCOMES

After dropping the wife off at her sewing course for the day, I decided to visit the blackhouse: we were on Lewis for a week. These ‘black’ places had been read about in Alastair McIntosh’s book, Hell and High Water, causing one to wonder just what these places were, and how they were inhabited: see – https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-arnol-blackhouse-place-culture.html. The illustrations and the text always left something obscure; something unclear; one needed to be there, inside, to feel the space and place, and to see its fabric. We had driven by late the previous day, the day of arrival, just to see the building, such was one’s intrigue; but the exterior was not enough. How did one inhabit these iconic shelters?

Arrnol blackhouse, Lewis.

After this visit, I decided to drive further south to the Norse mill. The signs led to a small parking area from which one could follow the track into the site of the mill. After turning the engine off, a huffing sound could be heard. Thoughtlessly, the noise was interpreted as being that of a windy day, with the wind gusting fiercely around, and buffeting static objects. On opening the door, the surprise was that it was so still; it was actually a cool day with a very light breeze that freshened up the body; but the gusting sound could still be heard.

Norse mills, Lewis.

Looking around, puzzled, the eyes locked onto a tall, white pylon nearby, and, on being raised, the slowly rotating blades of a lone wind turbine were revealed: the whooshing sounds matched the cyclic movement of the three blades. There were no ifs or buts; this wind turbine was noisy. The sound could be recorded on the camera’s video; it was no phantom whisper. One wondered why it came as a surprise to Shetlanders living near the large Viking wind farm sprawling across Central Mainland, that these machines were noisy: see The Shetland Times, 5 July 2024. Folk were saying that they would have to move away, such was the 24 hour nuisance described as two persistent noises: the swoosh of the blades and the whirr of the turbines.

Why is the fact that wind turbines are a noise nuisance never made clear, when, at the Norse mill on Lewis, it was so self-evident? The report in The Shetland Times tells us that the energy company is managing matters, and is constantly monitoring noise levels that are all within acceptable limits.

There are two matters here: self-regulation and the setting of limits. It has been shown repeatedly in many situations that self-regulation just does not work: the latest example is Boeing. One soon discovers that spin specialists - no pun intended - soon takeover to prove everything - anything - is fine. As for noise limits: one usually discovers that these have been set by the industry to suit its needs; and that the industry has funded research to prove any point it wishes to make: universities have a lot to answer for in their greedy grabbing at funding to promote research and improve reputations.

As an example of industry’s cunning, in Australia, it is reported that those involved in the motorcycle world make sure that they manage the rule making, and the noise limits that are set by regulation. So it is that one sees motor bikes weaving through, in and out of, and around traffic willy-nilly, all in accordance with the law, making deafening sounds that are all within the ‘acceptable limits’ set by the industry. Neither the ad hoc manoeuvring, nor the noise is acceptable to ordinary behaviour and well being, but these are all legal: “So stop complaining!” One is reminded of wind turbines that are promoted as being a few pin pricks on the hills - “You’ll never see them” - when they are disturbingly noisy, and do intrude rudely into the wonder of landscapes; but one is soon told to pull one’s head in; that these matters are just all otherwise because they are legal, established by a rational mind; a position that infers stupidity on the voice of complaint: something irrational. The jumble of meanings and logic creates a debater’s paradise.

We live in an era skilled at PR. We are sold wind farms on the premise that they are a few rotating structures standing fuzzily against the sky, that have very little environmental impact: “It’s all in the mind.” The great irony is that the contractors on Shetland use tiny spinning gizmos coloured like the German flag - red, yellow, and black, as if the birds might remember the worst of WW2 - placed across the grassy fields that the contractors have claimed, to chase away nesting birds. Nesting birds are a nuisance because they will hinder the progress of the construction programme. The obvious question is: if these little spinners can have such an effect on bird behaviour, what might the impact of the giant turbines be on bird life? The question is avoided while the answer is given: “No measurable or significant impact at all,” with supreme confidence that quashes all other opinion into random, irrelevant, personal whims and foolish fantasies: “Can’t you understand this?”

Then there is the reality of the infrastructure required to service and maintain the turbines. Kilometres of roads need to be built to get to the turbines, and kilometres of copper cables need to be installed to convey the power to the transmission lines. Then, once the wind farm is all connected, the power has to be transferred to the major substation, with the general statement sometimes being that underground cables are too expensive, in spite of any possible promise. On Shetland, this has meant kilometres of overland cables joining central Mainland to Lerwick, offering a different cluttered mess of frames and cables to litter the landscape. It is in these areas that one sees the mysterious spinning ‘German flags.’

One is never told the full implications or the impacts of these developments until necessity demands, and then one is challenged with the rude response that tries to make idiots of us all: “What! How did you think the power was going to get there?” and “How did you think these turbines would stand up without huge footings?” “How did you think the turbines would be serviced?” etc. The brazen propositions are designed to shut the critic up. “What! Did you expect turbines to be silent?” “We cannot help it if few birds are silly enough to fly into the blades.”

And so it goes on: the proposition that the turbines should never have gone in, is never entertained. It is all a true muddle that uses spin and psychology to befuddle those who complain about the reality that was experienced at the Norse mills: turbines are noisy and do have an impact on place. The efforts of those in favour are all directed at overcoming this reality, both before and after installation. ‘Fake’ has become a word to fuzz and confuse everything these days, but it does appear to describe the efforts of an industry seemingly hell-bent on telling everyone that there are no problems with turbines other that in the minds of those who believe there are or might be: “You’re the problem.” There’s nothing that cannot be ‘managed.’

One thinks of the Grenfell Tower disaster with the flammable cladding. Years ago, when the cladding product used on this tower – or one similar to it - first came onto the market with stunningly beautiful brochures and a choice of bright new colours, I was told by the firm selling the product that did not support combustion, and with independent tests to prove this, that this new product did burn readily; that one had to be careful about how and where this material was used. If I knew this, then many more did too; yet the product has been used across the world; it was cheaper, and looked the same as the cladding that didn’t have the problem. We now know much more about this ‘more economical’ sheeting, and are finally acting on this knowledge, and discovering just how costly it has proved to be, both in money and lives. It is a shame that the ‘blind eye’ and ‘deaf ear’ was turned to matters for so long.

If this can happen with cladding, then it is easy to see how wind farms and motor bikes can disturb the world without anyone trying to stop the seemingly irresponsible silliness that ignores life, safety, and ordinary well being and its simple delight. What should one do? We might choose to act sensibly only when disaster strikes; but why should one have to wait for these problems to be revealed? We need to learn more from the Grenfell Tower fire.

Lingering behind this turbine experience is not only the current situation of noise and landscape concerns, but there is the future to consider too: what is the real cost of removing these structures and infrastructures once they reach the end of their usefulness? Who will pay for this? Words assure us that everything is fine; that this has been appropriately ‘managed’ – but does this matter involve a problem that has yet to be revealed too; to be attended to later only when the reality hits home?

28 FEB 25

NOTE

Shetland decommissioning

An interesting article in ABC News (Australia) that reports on the unexpected costs of decommissioning wind farms, raises a matter that the Shetland Islands Council (SIC) might find disturbing. One hopes that the enthusiasm for turbines has not blinded the SIC to this reality that, for it, could involve multi-millions of pounds. Has the cost of reinstating McDermid’s ‘naked hills’ ever been accurately calculated?