From Seattle to New York City, Minneapolis to Dallas, boxy apartment and condo buildings sporting bland facades, metallic or colored cladding and a generally flat aesthetic seem to dominate new urban developments these days. Surprisingly similar in style from one place to the next, they have been dubbed works of “developer chic” or “fast-casual architecture” and branded blandmarks or LoMo (Low Modern), generally by those critical of their appearance. Some of their look is a byproduct of “value engineering,” a stripping away of decorative flourishes for the sake of saving a few dollars (the bane of many artistic architects) but there is more to the story.

As with virtually any architecture, costs do naturally play a role as well in shaping these structures — ornate brickwork may look beautiful, but even as a decorative facade layer the material adds loads of weight and a lot of expense to a cheaper wood-framed building.  As for the stylistic convergence more broadly, much of this traces to economic and other factors that are essentially the same across cities in America and otherwise: high demand for affordable housing that has to meet a similar set of safety and other code requirements.

In many cities, housing is in short supply and a lot of area is zoned for single-family residential, forcing developers to fit as much housing as they can into whatever plots are left available. Where they do get built, these structures face restrictions often derived from international building codes, calling for formulaic approaches (for instance: a concrete base floor with five wooden floors on top) resulting in a roughly similar size and shape. Facades with portions that are recessed or pushed out are common features, too, again usually the product of local ordinances and design review boards that demand physical variety from facades.

To some critics, these cookie-cutter creations represent an aesthetic crisis. To others, they seem like harbingers of gentrification. As any urbanist knows, though, a lack of affordable housing is a serious and pervasive problem neither caused nor solved by architects as such. Architecture critic Kate Wagner looks at the situation pragmatically, arguing that “affordable mid and high-rise towers are the most effective way to house the greatest number of people on the smallest parcel of land, something that’s desperately needed in places like San Francisco, where the value of land is so high.”

For those who would point to the much-discussed failures of 20th-century mass-housing attempts, she writes: “Modernist public housing was not the failure of architecture it was the failure of people—through racial prejudices, misguided and poorly thought out policies, ugly politics, and economic greed, people caused the public housing of the past to fail.” Additionally, a lot of lessons learned from that era are incorporated into even the most boring of boxy apartments, including mixed-use programs that activate areas and bring in more than just residents.

More broadly, there is a case to be made that what was once more of an art has become something of a science, whatever one’s opinion of the effects. Architects have always been in the business of balancing aesthetics and pragmatics, form and function, but increasingly their work is constrained by outside forces, including but not limited to client budgets, safety considerations and municipal rules.

Over the long term, the sometimes-shoddy construction materials and methods of this currently trending typology may be the seeds of its undoing. It’s possible these will be looked back on as a mistake. Maybe, though, the same thing will happen here that has with other approaches and styles over architectural history: people will come to appreciate the beauty and functionality in what currently seems mundane if not abhorrent. In the meantime, architects can only do so much — it’s up to cities and their citizens to accept reality or rethink entrenched paradigms and consider the merits of changing zoning limitations, restrictive codes and perhaps also the benchmarks by which we judge architecture to be good or bad.

Considering that more than a third of Dutch people use a bike as their main mode of transportation every day, it’s no surprise that the world’s largest bicycle garage is located in Utrecht. Recently completed by the firm Ector Hoogstad Architecten, the cavernous three-story bike parking facility is tucked beneath Utrecht Central Station, which is currently in the midst of a major makeover that aims to make this part of the city more sustainable, walkable and vibrant.

While various “modernizations” in the 60s and 70s made the area around Utrecht Central Station more car-friendly, the ongoing project to update the station is doing the opposite. The growing popularity of e-bikes and rising consciousness about the climate crisis are contributing to more bike riders than ever in the Netherlands, which will require new and modified public transport hubs with plenty of amenities for cyclists.

A modernist building that once connected the railway station to the adjacent shopping mall has been dismantled, allowing for a new public pedestrian street and square to be inserted along with the new bike garage, say the architects.

“The three storey bicycle parking is situated underneath the square. It has been designed with three aims in mind:  convenience, speed and safety. In order to achieve this in a facility of this scale cyclists are enabled to pedal all the way up to their parking slot. The parking lanes branch off the cycle paths, to ensure that users do not get in the way of cyclists passing through the system.”

“Room for mounting and dismounting is left alongside the cycling lanes. Modestly sloping ramps connect the parking areas on different levels The walls are colour-coded to indicate the routing, and electronic  signals indicate the position of free parking slots. Additional facilities such as a cycle repair shop, a cycle rental outlet and several floor managers meet users’ every need.”

“Stairwells and tunnels create direct connections to the elevated square, the main terminal building and the platforms. Ensuring good orientation and plenty of daylight, the stairwells are located inside atria covered by glass roofs. Large windows in the outer walls allow users views toward the platforms and the bus terminal.”

Featuring generous proportions and raw surfaces made of concrete, steel and wood, the garage feels clean and modern, with just as much care and attention given to it as you’d see in a high-profile parking garage for cars in the United States, like Miami’s 1111 Lincoln Road by Herzog de Meuron.

Check out more photos at EctorHoogstad.com.

Plenty of architects can say they began from nothing, but few mean it quite so literally as Arata Isozaki. He was fourteen years old in 1945, when his hometown of Oita, located halfway between Nagasaki and Hiroshima, was destroyed by the United States’ atomic bombs. Looking around him in the aftermath, he says, he began to wonder what it would take to rebuild. “So, my first experience of architecture was the void of architecture.”

Recipient of the 2019 Pritzker Prize, architecture’s highest honor, Isozaki is getting more of the international attention he deserves after a decades-long career spanning continents and helping cities around the world grow from the ground up. Some observers might find his work a bit difficult to pin down; other than a repeated use of simple geometric shapes like cubes and pyramids, there are few connecting threads from one project to the next. Isozaki has defied conventions, refusing to cooperate with external demands that he define for himself a particular style, remaining open to flexibility and adaptability as he addresses the needs of each individual project.

A 1954 graduate of the University of Tokyo, Isozaki first worked under the tutelage of future 1987 Pritzker Prize laureate Kenzo Tange, another of eight total Japanese architects to win the prestigious prize, but he quickly made a name for himself on his own merit. His first notable project was the Oita Prefectural Library (1966), which was repurposed as an art gallery in 1996 and is described by the Pritzker Prize jury as “a masterpiece of Japanese Brutalism.”

Other early works in Japan, including the Museum of Modern Art Gunma (1964) and the Kitakyushu Municipal Museum of Art, Fukuoka (1974) share this structure’s avant garde boldness. During this time, Isozaki also created futuristic renderings like City in the Air (1962), imagining a fresh veneer of urban life suspended above the existing fabric of Tokyo in response to rapid urbanization.

Isozaki’s first overseas commission was the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles (1986), representing one of the first major buildings in the United States to be designed by a Japanese architect. This swiftly led to more commissions, including large-scale projects that drew upon Isozaki’s initial fascination with building cities from scratch.

“If you look at the construction booms that I have experienced, they all started with my first job overseas, which was in Los Angeles — the Museum of Contemporary Art there,” Isozaki tells the Japan Times. “That was part of a very large-scale development. It was the same kind of project as the Mori Building’s Roppongi Hills in Tokyo, where they started with a large-scale development and then added in a hall or a museum to attract the people. MoCA was also the first museum focused on contemporary art in the world.”

“So, in America, in the 1970s and ’80s many large-scale developments were being made, and in Japan, too, at the end of the construction boom that continued through the 1980s, there were lots of ideas for similarly large-scale developments. Then the economic bubble in Japan burst, and all those ideas were scrapped. Now, I think the situation you see in Tokyo is that the ideas born in the bubble period are finally being realized.”

As he accumulated over 100 built projects around the world, Isozaki displayed his chameleon-like sense of adaptability, all tied together by his favored blend of geometric shapes and organic curves. His preference for dramatic modernist silhouettes gradually fell away as he approached each individual project with an eye for its context, and his sense of humor occasionally made way for unexpected solutions, like the question mark-shaped Fujimi Country Club (1973), which was reportedly a sign of his bemusement with Japan’s golf obsession.

Domus: La Casa del Hombre (1995), a science museum in Caruña, Spain, rises like a ship against the rocky cliffs; the 100-meter-tall Art Tower Mito (1990) in Japan takes a stack of glittering metallic tetrahedrons high into the sky; Ceramic Park Mino (2002) recalls the sensibilities of MOMA Gunma.

Over the years, Isozaki’s work began to display a certain softness. The Qatar National Convention Center (2011) is characterized by stretching branches supporting a cantilevered roof and penetrating the interior of the building. Allianz Tower, Milan (2015), completed in collaboration with architect Andrea Maffei, looks like an ordinary skyscraper from afar, revealing its gently billowing facade when you stand at its base. Others in this vein include the Palau Sant Jordi, Spain (1992), Nara Centennial Hall (1999), Shanghai Symphony Hall (2014) and his inflatable 2013 collaboration with artist Anish Kapoor, the Ark Nova.

“Isozaki demonstrated a worldwide vision that was ahead of his time and facilitated a dialogue between East and West,” write the Pritzker Prize jurors.

“Isozaki’s oeuvre has been described as heterogeneous and encompasses descriptions from vernacular to high tech. What is patently clear is that he has not been following trends but forging his own path… Clearly, he is one of the most influential figures in contemporary world architecture on a constant search, not afraid to change and try new ideas. His architecture rests on profound understanding, not only of architecture but also of philosophy, history, theory and culture.”

Minimalism is chic and trendy, but sometimes, there’s nothing more satisfying than blotting out bland and boring surfaces with bold splashes of color and pattern. That’s especially true when the structure in question is an eyesore, abandoned or weighed down by the baggage of a difficult past. Giving architecture a maximalist makeover with colorful paint can utterly transform not just the buildings themselves but their entire communities, creating a ripple effect of cheerfulness. These vivid modifications are carried out for all sorts of reasons: easing the impact of blight, celebrating a change in the city’s fortune, preserving cultural traditions or simply for the love of art.

Reviving Abandoned Structures

Madrid-based artist Okuda San Miguel has quickly developed one of the most instantly recognizable styles in street art history with his massive paint projects and sculptures. His murals scale skyscrapers, his interiors have transformed church interiors into incredible skate parks and his faceted three-dimensional creations have played starring roles in major festivals, but of all his dazzling projects, his transformations of abandoned buildings make the biggest visual impact. They include turning a sad, deteriorating house in Arkansas into a “universal chapel,” giving an old abandoned church in Morocco a vivid yellow makeover covered in his signature animal faces and painting two enormous skulls onto an abandoned castle in Loire Valley, France for the LaBel Valette Festival.

Atlanta-based artist and muralist Alex Brewer, better known as HENSE, is often commissioned to apply his pleasingly chaotic and colorful style on abandoned and neglected structures all over the world. One of his best-known projects adds a watercolor effect to an old church in a downtrodden neighborhood in Washington DC with the aim of calling attention to the area’s potential as the city’s next bustling arts district. Another massive mural coats the exterior of a warehouse in Richmond, Virginia for the RVA Festival, and a third splashes across a historic building with a boarded-up facade in Atlanta.

Created for Philadelphia mural project “We the People,” which envisions each of its six murals as “a seed of hope for a bright future,” NTEL’s NATIV NTELIGENCE wraps around an entire block of currently empty buildings to provide a reminder of the “nourishing potential of the space.”

Tel Aviv’s derelict and abandoned Dolphinarium building, which was the scene of a 2001 suicide building, got a wild new look in 2015 courtesy of street artist Dede. The shape of the building was just too perfect to pass on turning it into a gigantic set of wind-up choppers.

Brightening Places of Poverty, Monotony & Blight

Poor communities simply don’t have the resources to maintain an outward appearance that the rest of the world finds “acceptable.” When you’re struggling to get by, fresh paint jobs, nice landscaping and even simple building maintenance is often a lower priority by default. But, with the permission and participation of the people living in those communities, projects that aim to revitalize them with a bit of color and care can make a big difference in general morale. The purpose isn’t necessarily to make these neighborhoods more palatable to wealthier people, but to show that they, too, are worthy of beauty and art. While projects like this can run the risk of glossing over deep systemic inequality, they’re beautiful when handled with sensitivity and awareness.

These large-scale mural projects can dramatically alter the mood of a neighborhood while bringing its inhabitants together to take an active role. Examples include German Crew’s transformation of Las Palmitas, Mexico, covering 224,280 square feet of architecture with neon colors, and a series of awesome painting projects by Haas & Hahn throughout Brazil’s favelas.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BT_WDJGg7jg/?utm_source=ig_embed

In Indonesia, teacher Kampung Pelangi used $22,000 worth of paint to infuse the village of Semarang (which was a slum not so long ago) into a vibrant tourist destination (though it’s not clear whether the town’s poor residents were displaced.)

And in Mumbai, waterfront slums that are home to millions of people have grown far more colorful thanks to the efforts of art teacher Rouble Nagi.

In 2016, Haas & Hahn brought their “FavelaPainting” project back to their home city of Amsterdam to call attention to the need for safe and livable refugee housing. Currently, many refugees are housed in former prisons and other buildings “that have long been an eyesore in Amsterdam’s skyline.”

“The project aims at transforming the buildings, both in- and outside, in order to create their new identity as a new home to the refugees. It will offer opportunities in form of skill training, network building and job opportunity, while empowering the participants to ‘make the place their own.’”

But sometimes it’s little more than monotonous surroundings and a lack of color that prompt colorful architectural makeovers. The isolated and incredibly cold Siberian town of Ust-Yansk combats the potentially depression-inducing wash of gray and white winters with bright colors on the buildings’ roofs after a recent restoration project.

Tirana, the capital city of Albania, wasn’t in a great place before artist-turned-mayor Ed Rama took office. Low on funds, high on crime and suffering from a plague of corruption, the city was also visually bleak. Rama decided to paint one of the saddest-looking buildings a bright orange, and the community loved it. Once he had painted a few more structures in a similar way, a larger movement took off, with international artists turning entire city blocks into works of contemporary art.

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Maximalist Makeovers Transforming Architecture With Vivid Paint Jobs

The abandoned Cresson Tuberculosis Sanatorium once housed TB patients seeking relief and recuperation amidst Pennsylvania’s rugged Allegheny Mountains.

Sanatoriums (not to be confused with sanitariums, San Antonio or Santeria) were the “in” thing back in the dark days before antibiotics. These collegial care homes away from home offered tuberculosis sufferers fresh air, bright sunlight and balanced nutrition – beneficial even if one wasn’t inflicted by “consumption”. Often located in mountainous or desert settings, sanatoriums also served to segregate the infected away from the uninfected… a time-honored practice applied to lepers and the mentally ill. Dude, harsh – welcome to the good old days!

In For The Long Hall

The so-called “sanatorium movement” originated in mid-nineteenth century Europe with Switzerland being a popular site due to its abundance of brisk Alpine air. As not everyone could afford treatment overseas, Americans looked to their own backyards to approximate the Swiss sanatorium experience. The year 1885 saw the first American sanatorium open in the New York Adirondacks town of Saranac. By 1900 there were 34 American sanatoriums and by 1925 that number had skyrocketed to 536.

A Cool Reception

The Cresson Tuberculosis Sanatorium opened in the midst of this clinical building boom.”The San”, as staff nicknamed it, was situated in Cambrian County, Pennsylvania, on land generously donated by wealthy steel tycoon and noted philanthropist Andrew Carnegie.

A Clean Sweep

The town of Cresson sits roughly 2,000 feet above sea level in the Allegheny Mountains of western Pennsylvania. Though only 80-odd miles east of Pittsburgh, Cresson’s relative isolation contributed to the four years required to build the sanatorium, which finally opened in 1916.

That Sinking Feeling

Tuberculosis – known as “The White Death” – was once one of the leading causes of mortality in the United States. In 1882 the disease’s cause (infection by the bacterium Mycobacterium tuberculosis) was discovered but it wasn’t until 1921 that an effective vaccine was developed. Meanwhile, sanatoriums thrived though many of their patients did not, living out the balance of their shortened lives in the palliative care of dedicated staff.

Switches Brew

The Cresson Tuberculosis Sanatorium had a good run as such institutions go, closing in 1964. That may seem surprisingly recent but CTS wasn’t the last holdout, not by a long shot: the A. G. Holley State Hospital (opened in 1950 as the Southeast Florida Tuberculosis Hospital) closed on July 2nd of 2012 and was demolished in November of 2014.

Steps To Recovery?

Circumstances conspired to shield the Cresson Tuberculosis Sanatorium from the wrecking ball. After its official closure in 1964, the sanatorium was repurposed as the Lawrence Frick State Hospital (a government-run mental health hospital) and carried on as such until 1984. Subsequently, and following some security modifications, the facility re-opened in 1987 as a prison (State Correctional Institution – Cresson) that closed in 2013.

Caught Red Handled

The current state of the former Cresson Tuberculosis Sanatorium ranges from mildly deteriorated to post-apocalyptic, depending on which areas were most recently used. Flickr member Thomas (Thomas James Caldwell) visited the facility in April of 2018 and although we’ve only posted his haunting images of the sanatorium’s interior, other areas of the complex can be viewed at his photostream. Hopefully Caldwell wore a face mask – although TB bacteria can survive in a dry state for mere weeks, dust from flaking lead-based paint is forever.