Born from the ruins of the second world war, few architectural styles are as polarising – or aptly named – as brutalism. But the famously stark concrete monoliths – long since associated with communist countries – are having a moment.
“The thing about brutalism: It’s not beloved in the way Baroque or mid-century modernism is,” writes Jessica Cherner for Architectural Digest, “but there is such an obvious beauty in its rigid geometry and unquestioning simplicity.”
Indeed, perhaps no other style is as obvious owing to its, well, brutal minimalism; its block-like buildings being almost bombproof in appearance thanks to their weighty concrete casings. Giant, hulking uniform cubic constructions that could almost be stacked like Lego; love them or loathe them, you certainly can’t not notice – or have an opinion about – them as well.
But this was not a building style delivered by Stalinist Russia or Mao’s China (though it was to be embraced by both those countries and many more), rather from post-war Western Europe, a branch from the modernist movement of the early 20th century. Swedish architect Hans Asplund first coined the expression nybrutalism to describe a cubical concrete home called Villa Göth in 1949, the phrase later adopted, shortened, and popularised by UK architectural critic Reyner Banham in the mid-50s. But surprisingly, the name brutalism is not a reference to the architecture’s stark aesthetic but to the French phrase béton brut which translates as ‘raw concrete’. Many believe that it was in France that brutalism was officially born with the building of Marseille’s 1,600-capacity social housing complex Unité d’Habitation. Designed by legendary modernist architect Le Corbusier (who once said a house is “a machine for living in”), the project is compared to an ocean liner that “redefined high-density housing by Dezeen, and “arguably the most influential Brutalist building of all time”.
Brutalism soon breached borders, its architecture blooming as far afield as the Soviet Union, the US, Israel, Brazil, and Japan. Writing for My Modern Met, Jessica Stewart says that brutalism is intertwined with 20th-century urban theory that looked toward socialist ideals, and so the concept became most associated with public works like schools, libraries, and arts centres. Indeed, some of the most revered – and reviled! – examples of brutalist buildings include London’s Trellick Tower, the Barbican Centre and the National Theatre; San Diego’s Geisel Library (named after Dr Suess); and Boston City Hall in the USA.
But by the end of the 70s, brutalism’s heyday was crumbling.
“Heading into the 1980s, Brutalism fell out of favour,” notes Stewart. “Part of this was due to the cold and austere nature of the architecture, which was often associated with totalitarianism.”
“Permanence is particularly attractive in our chaotic and crumbling world”.
Another factor was that the style did not age well – neither figuratively nor literally owing to concrete’s tendency to stain and decay. Cultural critic Anthony Daniels, who writes under the pen name Theodore Dalrymple, went so far as to describe the movement as “monstrous” and, with just one building, capable of ruining “the harmony of an entire townscape”.
But just as brutalism spawned from the smouldering ashes of post-war Europe, it has risen this time from its own concrete dust. But why?
According to US design firm Alexander Zilberman Architecture, brutalism has finally “rid itself from past ideological associations” to enable people to “appreciate the raw power of the style” – including the personality-enhancing imperfections of concrete. Even the brutalism hashtag is on the rise.
“There is no question that Brutalism looks exceedingly cool,” writes Nikil Saval for the New York Times. “But its deeper appeal is moral.”
Brad Dunning of GQ calls brutalism “the techno music of architecture, stark and menacing”, perhaps experiencing a revival because “permanence is particularly attractive in our chaotic and crumbling world”.
“What was and still is appealing about Brutalism is that it had a kind of purity,” says Saval. “… The aesthetic of Brutalism may at last triumph over its ethic.”
