The architect Renzo Piano in his workshop
Dare I Care?
In New York City, and America at large, there seems to be an unspoken rule that in order to create one must first destroy. Not that a give-and-take doesn't exist in nature -- but it's always baffled me that even endless acres of farmland must first be absolved of their hills and valleys before contractors will even think about breaking ground on their newest suburban project. Whenever I return to Maryland to visit my family I feel a great sadness driving by the once-empty fields that now inevitably house another set of condominiums on top of another set of strip malls. And for me I think the sadness hits hard for two reasons. First there's the loss of the natural world, the all-too-quick eradication of the landscape that I took for granted as a child. And then there's the utter lack of artistic vision screaming from the rooftops of the edifices erected there.
To be clear: I'm not against progress, or new buildings, or even new buildings built on previously-open spaces. What I'm against is the erasure of the past like it never meant anything, all in favor of a future that's unabashedly ugly and disrespectful to the space it inhabits. Frankly, it's insulting to me as an artist and as a citizen. And it's not just in Maryland or New York. As I've traveled to major cities across the United States (Miami, Austin, Chicago) I've noticed a certain directionless "style" popping up, masquerading as inventive design alongside truly iconic works, like crabgrass in a garden pretending to be tulips.
To be clear: I'm not against progress, or new buildings, or even new buildings built on previously-open spaces. What I'm against is the erasure of the past like it never meant anything, all in favor of a future that's unabashedly ugly and disrespectful to the space it inhabits. Frankly, it's insulting to me as an artist and as a citizen. And it's not just in Maryland or New York. As I've traveled to major cities across the United States (Miami, Austin, Chicago) I've noticed a certain directionless "style" popping up, masquerading as inventive design alongside truly iconic works, like crabgrass in a garden pretending to be tulips.
Exterior of The New York Times building That's why, when I do come across architecture that asserts itself in the opposite direction, I feel compelled to follow it. And by "follow it" I mean learn more about it, learn about the team of people who built it, about their intentions, and their hopes for it. Architecture takes a long time to carry to term. An architect could easily give birth to a child and raise him to puberty while the building project they started before they even conceived is still struggling to reach its full height. All of that's to say that architecture, unlike so many other types of art (and let's be honest, sex itself), doesn't happen by accident and doesn't happen overnight.
I first learned of one such inspirational team of architects, the Renzo Piano Building Workshop, when I was living in Times Square. Yes, I lived in Times Square for three months -- don't ask. One of my respites from that bizarre neighborhood was found on the roof of my apartment building where I had a pretty clear view of the New York Times building on 8th Ave. It wasn't an instant love affair, but I spent enough time on the roof of my building that I got to know my neighbor over the course of the summer. I never did end up falling truly, madly, deeply in love with it, but something about its strange exoskeleton took root in my mind, and months later when I scratched my head over who to research for a Modern Architecture final it was still there, growing.
Cue the deep-dive. I spent many weeks at the Main Branch of the New York Public Library learning about this radically amazing creative thinker, Renzo Piano, and the work of his firm, the RPBW. As I pored over those books and images what struck me the most was how attuned Piano was to every little aspect of every single one of his projects. He wasn't (isn't) just aware of his clients' desires for their buildings, or of the history of the site he's building upon, or of his own motivations for each piece -- he actively listens to the voices around him and incorporates the best elements of their thoughts (and his own) into his designs.
And now, over a forty-plus-year career, Piano has designed and erected a plethora of works in locales as diverse as Australia, the Netherlands, America, Japan, and his native Italy. He has conceived, designed, planned and overseen the development of museums, art galleries, extensions to pre-existing buildings, luxury clothing stores, and an airport. Whether working alone, in conjunction with other architects, or in collaboration with his design firm, time and again Piano renews his commitment to learning through artistic experimentation and personal reflection on his way to a deeper understanding of himself and the world at large.
I've chosen two works to expound upon in this review: his renovation of the Fiat Factory in Turin, Italy (1983-1989) and his erection of the Jean-Marie Tjibaou Cultural Center on the island of New Caledonia (1991-1998). While drastically different projects superficially, both works incorporate a number of like-minded design elements governed by Piano's dedication to site-specific, community-first architecture. And while much of this technical prowess was indeed culled from many of the great twentieth century architects, some of whom Piano was lucky enough to learn from directly, the execution is all his own.
I first learned of one such inspirational team of architects, the Renzo Piano Building Workshop, when I was living in Times Square. Yes, I lived in Times Square for three months -- don't ask. One of my respites from that bizarre neighborhood was found on the roof of my apartment building where I had a pretty clear view of the New York Times building on 8th Ave. It wasn't an instant love affair, but I spent enough time on the roof of my building that I got to know my neighbor over the course of the summer. I never did end up falling truly, madly, deeply in love with it, but something about its strange exoskeleton took root in my mind, and months later when I scratched my head over who to research for a Modern Architecture final it was still there, growing.
Cue the deep-dive. I spent many weeks at the Main Branch of the New York Public Library learning about this radically amazing creative thinker, Renzo Piano, and the work of his firm, the RPBW. As I pored over those books and images what struck me the most was how attuned Piano was to every little aspect of every single one of his projects. He wasn't (isn't) just aware of his clients' desires for their buildings, or of the history of the site he's building upon, or of his own motivations for each piece -- he actively listens to the voices around him and incorporates the best elements of their thoughts (and his own) into his designs.
And now, over a forty-plus-year career, Piano has designed and erected a plethora of works in locales as diverse as Australia, the Netherlands, America, Japan, and his native Italy. He has conceived, designed, planned and overseen the development of museums, art galleries, extensions to pre-existing buildings, luxury clothing stores, and an airport. Whether working alone, in conjunction with other architects, or in collaboration with his design firm, time and again Piano renews his commitment to learning through artistic experimentation and personal reflection on his way to a deeper understanding of himself and the world at large.
I've chosen two works to expound upon in this review: his renovation of the Fiat Factory in Turin, Italy (1983-1989) and his erection of the Jean-Marie Tjibaou Cultural Center on the island of New Caledonia (1991-1998). While drastically different projects superficially, both works incorporate a number of like-minded design elements governed by Piano's dedication to site-specific, community-first architecture. And while much of this technical prowess was indeed culled from many of the great twentieth century architects, some of whom Piano was lucky enough to learn from directly, the execution is all his own.
A Little History
Renzo Piano was born in 1937 in the town of Genoa in Italy. Located in the seafaring region of Liguria, Genoa is know for its temperate climate, fresh seafood, and of course, Genoa salami. Born to a family of builders and engineers, Piano was quite familiar with the construction business from a young age. He developed a passion for building early on, and upon completing his initial studies, enrolled in the School of Architecture at the Milan Polytechnic University. While a student he apprenticed under the architect and furniture designer Franco Albini. An incredibly successful and influential creator in his own right, Albini encouraged Piano to fine-tune his sensibilities in a way that prioritized a building's form as a direct output of its function.
In 1964 Piano graduated from university and moved into a teaching position at his alma mater. He began experimenting with new lightweight building materials and, while simultaneously working at American architect Louis Kahn's atelier, earned commissions on small-scale buildings in Italy. At Kahn's studio he continued to study the patterned shapes of the natural world and worked on novel ways to mimic them in his designs. Then, in 1971, after six years of honing his craft, Piano partnered with two other young, up-and-coming Italian architects, Richard Rogers and Gianfranco Franchini. The trio entered an international design contest seeking a building plan for a new commercial-arts complex in a rundown suburb of Paris. Their submission took first prize -- and took the architecture world by storm -- and the three men set out to design their first large-scale work.
In 1964 Piano graduated from university and moved into a teaching position at his alma mater. He began experimenting with new lightweight building materials and, while simultaneously working at American architect Louis Kahn's atelier, earned commissions on small-scale buildings in Italy. At Kahn's studio he continued to study the patterned shapes of the natural world and worked on novel ways to mimic them in his designs. Then, in 1971, after six years of honing his craft, Piano partnered with two other young, up-and-coming Italian architects, Richard Rogers and Gianfranco Franchini. The trio entered an international design contest seeking a building plan for a new commercial-arts complex in a rundown suburb of Paris. Their submission took first prize -- and took the architecture world by storm -- and the three men set out to design their first large-scale work.
The Centre Georges Pompidou stands in stark contrast to the surrounding neighborhood
Right out of the gate this project, the Centre Georges Pompidou, turned out to be a microcosm of Piano's entire architectural portfolio. The three architects had an incredible collaborative ability to synthesize their disparate influences and then wring them through their own creative filters. For Piano's part, Albini’s hand is felt in the use of inexpensive, lightweight materials as well as the lattice of steel poles that extend around the entirety of the complex. Kahn's presence manifests in the sheer monumentality of the building and its aggressive assertion of itself as the signpost of the modern world. Piano is, however, much more than the sum of his influences and colleagues, and the Centre Georges Pompidou is notable in Piano's oeuvre for two reasons.
First, the entire complex is entirely inside-out. Rather than hiding the mechanical and HVAC systems like virtually every other building on the planet, Piano and co. excavated and color-coded them. The result is that the guts of the building are visible to the public -- and not just visible, but in-your-face and harmonic. The water and plumbing pipes are green, signifying sewage, while the electrical systems are yellow, signifying electricity and lightning, and the air conditioning lines are blue, for air. Passageways that allow the flow of people are marked red. These walkways and staircases are also externalized, and covered in transparent hemispheres, simultaneously alluding to the color-coded tubes and throwing the otherwise boxy design in relief.
First, the entire complex is entirely inside-out. Rather than hiding the mechanical and HVAC systems like virtually every other building on the planet, Piano and co. excavated and color-coded them. The result is that the guts of the building are visible to the public -- and not just visible, but in-your-face and harmonic. The water and plumbing pipes are green, signifying sewage, while the electrical systems are yellow, signifying electricity and lightning, and the air conditioning lines are blue, for air. Passageways that allow the flow of people are marked red. These walkways and staircases are also externalized, and covered in transparent hemispheres, simultaneously alluding to the color-coded tubes and throwing the otherwise boxy design in relief.
The transparent passageway tubes allow for the movement of people
Second, the Centre Georges Pompidou is a decidedly multidimensional space. It houses an art museum (the largest modern art museum in all of Europe), an enormous public library akin to the NYPL's Main Branch, and IRCAM, an acoustic research laboratory. Piano has a deep love for the concept of learning as well as an insatiable yen to not only create access to information but to create a space that motivates people to want to learn. As we will see, both of the following designs play on the concept of a sort-of artistic shopping mall where the public can go and shop for ideas rather than things.
These two elements -- the dichotomy of internal spaces and external facades, and the dedication of a building to its community -- appear time and again across Piano's projects. Truly an empathic builder, Piano has described himself as striving to “manipulate the universe to ends that are human yet compatible with the planet," implying that 1) human constructs all too often prioritize the egoism of our species, but also 2) that harmony between our species and this planet is achievable -- with gorgeous results (Buchanan 69). Piano treats each project site as an additional client, always searching for the most authentic ways to articulate its personality in his design. His work on the Fiat automobile factory and the Tjibaou Cultural Center are but two examples of the architect masterfully pursuing tension and wonder through the act of physical creation. That he not only values this balance but repeatedly engages with it is indicative of the complexity of his thought processes and the depth of his love for what he does.
These two elements -- the dichotomy of internal spaces and external facades, and the dedication of a building to its community -- appear time and again across Piano's projects. Truly an empathic builder, Piano has described himself as striving to “manipulate the universe to ends that are human yet compatible with the planet," implying that 1) human constructs all too often prioritize the egoism of our species, but also 2) that harmony between our species and this planet is achievable -- with gorgeous results (Buchanan 69). Piano treats each project site as an additional client, always searching for the most authentic ways to articulate its personality in his design. His work on the Fiat automobile factory and the Tjibaou Cultural Center are but two examples of the architect masterfully pursuing tension and wonder through the act of physical creation. That he not only values this balance but repeatedly engages with it is indicative of the complexity of his thought processes and the depth of his love for what he does.
The Fiat Factory Conversion (1983-1989)
“We belong…simply to that big stream of people who in various ways manipulate material to organize life."
~ Renzo Piano, speaking of architects
Torino = Turin In the country of Italy... in the province of Piedmont... in the city of Turin... in the town of Lingotto... The Fiat Automobile Factory!
While the Fiat corporation may not be as old as some things in Italy, it bears an impressive history by contemporary standards: one hundred and twenty years. From its inception at the tail end of the nineteenth century to its expansion and rise in the first decade of the twentieth, Fiat Automobiles has held a special place in the hearts of those Piedmontese lucky enough to be living in Turin. The integral relationship between the people and the products is even embedded in the manufacturer's name, FIAT -- Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino, or Italian Automobiles Factory, Turin.
The factory's genesis lies with Fiat co-founder and chairman Giovanni Agnelli and a trip he took to Ford's motor plant in 1910. Agnelli was a forward-thinking entrepreneur, and he had a great product, but he lacked the ability to mass-produce and grow his brand. In Detroit, Michigan Agnelli came face-to-face with Ford's sprawling factory with its army of employees and incredibly efficient, optimized assembly line. When he returned to Turin he began to implement Ford's production methods into Fiat's day-to-day manufacturing. Six years later he commissioned another forward-thinking Italian, the young architect Giacomo Matté-Trucco, to design and build Europe's largest (by a long shot) automobile factory.
While the Fiat corporation may not be as old as some things in Italy, it bears an impressive history by contemporary standards: one hundred and twenty years. From its inception at the tail end of the nineteenth century to its expansion and rise in the first decade of the twentieth, Fiat Automobiles has held a special place in the hearts of those Piedmontese lucky enough to be living in Turin. The integral relationship between the people and the products is even embedded in the manufacturer's name, FIAT -- Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino, or Italian Automobiles Factory, Turin.
The factory's genesis lies with Fiat co-founder and chairman Giovanni Agnelli and a trip he took to Ford's motor plant in 1910. Agnelli was a forward-thinking entrepreneur, and he had a great product, but he lacked the ability to mass-produce and grow his brand. In Detroit, Michigan Agnelli came face-to-face with Ford's sprawling factory with its army of employees and incredibly efficient, optimized assembly line. When he returned to Turin he began to implement Ford's production methods into Fiat's day-to-day manufacturing. Six years later he commissioned another forward-thinking Italian, the young architect Giacomo Matté-Trucco, to design and build Europe's largest (by a long shot) automobile factory.
"Warrior With Spear". 1915. Umberto Boccioni Perhaps inspired by Italian Futurism, and most definitely inspired by French avant-garde architect and intellectual Le Corbusier, Matté-Trucco planned a massive rectangular structure five hundred meters long and 250,000 square meters in area. He balanced the building's rigid perpendiculars and lines of ribbon windows with winding helicoidal ramps in the interior and an oval test track on the roof. The building's skeleton and ramps were constructed using reinforced concrete -- still a fascinatingly new building material when the plant opened. Using this material allowed craftsmen to develop a modular assembly system whereby a set of concrete parts could be set off-site, brought to the site in pieces, and then assembled into larger, more complex shapes. In fact, concrete not only accounts for the factory's durability but for its novelty also as it could be poured into a plethora of curvilinear shapes previously difficult or impossible to form.
Lingotto’s kit of parts (that is, its modular pieces) consisted of the pillar, the beam, and the floor slab. These might sound like old-hat now, but I assure you they were revolutionary concepts one hundred years ago. Matté-Trucco rhythmically arranged these pieces to emphasize the horizontal and vertical axes of the factory’s facade and the grid layout of its numerous cubic office spaces. In his benchmark manifesto, Towards An Architecture, Le Corbusier himself hailed its dimensions, horizontal symmetry, and windowed facade as a structural descendant of and monument to the steamship. At the helm was Giovanni Agnelli captaining a town-sized crew. In 1923 the S.S. Lingotto set sail, and as Fiat automobiles grew in popularity and the Fiat name achieved greater social cache, everyone prospered.
Lingotto’s kit of parts (that is, its modular pieces) consisted of the pillar, the beam, and the floor slab. These might sound like old-hat now, but I assure you they were revolutionary concepts one hundred years ago. Matté-Trucco rhythmically arranged these pieces to emphasize the horizontal and vertical axes of the factory’s facade and the grid layout of its numerous cubic office spaces. In his benchmark manifesto, Towards An Architecture, Le Corbusier himself hailed its dimensions, horizontal symmetry, and windowed facade as a structural descendant of and monument to the steamship. At the helm was Giovanni Agnelli captaining a town-sized crew. In 1923 the S.S. Lingotto set sail, and as Fiat automobiles grew in popularity and the Fiat name achieved greater social cache, everyone prospered.
The original Fiat Factory as designed by Giacomo Matté-Trucco
Of course even the wildest monuments become commonplace in time, and by the 1970s the Fiat factory was outdated and unable to keep up with contemporary industrial practices. This coupled with the growing decline of global automobile manufacturing led Fiat president Gianni Agnelli (Giovanni's grandson) to close up shop in 1982. It was simply not economically feasible to continue producing cars there. This led to the predicament of what to do with the place and how to help all the Piedmontese who would lost their jobs as a result.
The answer turned out to be anything but novel. In its prime the factory had been a symbol of prosperity for the people of Lingotto, and after World War II, a symbol of hope as they struggled to rebuild their lives post-Fascism. The Fiat corporation had a long history of patronizing the arts in Turin so Agnelli held an international design competition in which over six hundred architects were asked to submit an original plan and purpose of renovation with the citizens of Turin voting to select their favorite.
The answer turned out to be anything but novel. In its prime the factory had been a symbol of prosperity for the people of Lingotto, and after World War II, a symbol of hope as they struggled to rebuild their lives post-Fascism. The Fiat corporation had a long history of patronizing the arts in Turin so Agnelli held an international design competition in which over six hundred architects were asked to submit an original plan and purpose of renovation with the citizens of Turin voting to select their favorite.
Front-view plan for the factory redesign
In both form and function, the original Lingotto factory stood as a testament to a modern (futuristic) industrial architecture. For his proposal Piano suggested that the site be transformed into a multipurpose facility promoting culture, education, and international business. The new Lingotto factory would be an arts and culture hub for Turin, Italy much as the Centre Georges Pompidou was for Paris, France. The new space would include a two-thousand seat auditorium, botanical gardens, a helipad for traveling businessmen, a hotel, two globular conference rooms, an art gallery, laboratories leased by the University of Turin's science departments, and office spaces for Fiat's administrative personal. In addition to keeping the core of the Fiat team in Lingotto, Piano's design allowed for thousands of people to remain employed in the same place they always had been.
The citizens of Turin chose Piano’s design because they felt it created a new urban function for the building without betraying its identity as a symbol of citywide growth and personal development What had once been a factory of automobiles would now be a factory of ideas -- an incubator for art and industry in Lingotto and beyond.
The citizens of Turin chose Piano’s design because they felt it created a new urban function for the building without betraying its identity as a symbol of citywide growth and personal development What had once been a factory of automobiles would now be a factory of ideas -- an incubator for art and industry in Lingotto and beyond.
Plan of the sunken auditorium and surrounding space
Unlike the Centre Georges Pompidou which was designed from the ground-up, the renovation of the Fiat Factory required Piano to do just that: renovate. He would have to innovate with the limitations of the extant physical structure. So to start, Piano updated the modular building principle to reflect modern design initiatives. The factory's original architectural grammar of pillars, beams, and floor slabs created cubicles of space that emphasized directionality and reinforced its overall rectangular form. Piano extended this motif by adding lightweight interior partitions, raised floors, and suspended ceilings. These elements offset the heavy load-bearing exoskeleton and provide a balance and psychological space to the mammoth building. This elegance is implied rather than (over)stated and as such updates the spaces without taking away from the original architecture's power.
Interior of the auditorium It was of the utmost importance to Piano and Agnelli to not only keep money flowing out of Fiat in support of the arts, but to bring artists and spectators into the building to see shows themselves. With this in mind, Piano designed a luxurious sunken auditorium to inhabit a new underground enclave. Ever the collaborator he reached out to Claudio Abbado, Conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic at the time, and Helmut Muller, the renowned designer and an expert on room acoustics. The three men sought to create a temple for classical music by designing an auditorium (the container for music) as if it was a musical instrument itself (the thing being contained). Piano and co. devised a flexible ceiling that could be raised and lowered to optimize sound quality based on what type of performance was playing that night. When the space is used for concerts the ceiling raises to increase sonic reverberation, imbuing the music with a fullness and richness that spreads out to all corners of the room. However, the auditorium can also be used for theatre and speaking engagements. In these case, the ceiling is lowered, decreasing reverberations and making dialogue clearer and more distinct.
Beautifully buffed cherry wood floors and bold red upholstery stand as points of contrast to the space's openness and allude to Le Corbusier’s ‘free plan.’ The free plan, one of Le Corbusier's Five Points Of A New Architecture, calls for the elimination of interior walls to take on the building's structural responsibility. By placing the auditorium underground -- and not on top of it -- Piano eliminated the need for any distracting columns or pillars that might create seats with more visibility than others. While it's true that those guests sitting closer to the stage will likely feel "closer" to the music, even guests in the last rows have unobstructed views, allowing them a direct connection to the art they came to witness. Finally, Piano integrated private balconies (an orchestral staple) into the auditorium's walls. They slope up at forty-five degree angles and formally mimic the angled glazed windows he added to the facade of the factory's outer shell, creating a graceful connection between the building’s interior and exterior.
Beautifully buffed cherry wood floors and bold red upholstery stand as points of contrast to the space's openness and allude to Le Corbusier’s ‘free plan.’ The free plan, one of Le Corbusier's Five Points Of A New Architecture, calls for the elimination of interior walls to take on the building's structural responsibility. By placing the auditorium underground -- and not on top of it -- Piano eliminated the need for any distracting columns or pillars that might create seats with more visibility than others. While it's true that those guests sitting closer to the stage will likely feel "closer" to the music, even guests in the last rows have unobstructed views, allowing them a direct connection to the art they came to witness. Finally, Piano integrated private balconies (an orchestral staple) into the auditorium's walls. They slope up at forty-five degree angles and formally mimic the angled glazed windows he added to the facade of the factory's outer shell, creating a graceful connection between the building’s interior and exterior.
Interior of a globular conference room
At opposite ends of the building, and raised above the old test track, Piano added two spherical conference rooms. Each room is constructed of a steel skeleton and glass paneling reminiscent of the curvilinear concrete pieces that made the factory so popular two generations earlier. The globes are balanced on cantilevered arms that place them up and over the roof's test track, evoking images of an enormous scale balancing two large melons.
This design serves many noteworthy functions. First, it opens the rooms up to air and light, a primary concern for modern architects seeking to bring more of the natural world into their constructions. Consider how different this is from the majority of conference rooms that exist behind thick walls and closed doors. Imagine receiving an invitation to take part in an important business meeting and walking in to the above space. Looking out on the surrounding city on a beautiful day can only be an overwhelmingly positive experience. The seating arrangement is also significant. Unlike the classic rectangular table with one person at the head, participants at Lingotto are invited to sit in a circle. Everyone is considered an equal player with equal footing and an equal say. It's a perfect example of how design can extend beyond aesthetics and have a real-world impact on the people operating in the space.
In addition to its egalitarian nature, the floor plan here showcases another example of visibly delicate materials imbues a place with a sense of lightness and calm. Although not shown in the above image these rooms are normally filled with plant life, reminding us of our integral relationship with nature and further blurring the lines between interior and exterior space. All of these decisions combine to impart upon visitors a sense of metaphorical growth as if the conference rooms themselves are giant plant buds sprouting from the factory's floors below. Considering that these globes are mainly used by Fiat's employees to administrate the company it is an incredibly elegant choice for Piano to draw parallels here between nature and industrial growth. In fact, this love of and respect for nature continues into the large-scale garden in the center of the premises. This enormous atrium is filled with full-size trees and all kinds of flowers, and is equally visible to all employees from the ribbon windows that stretch along the interior walls of the building.
This design serves many noteworthy functions. First, it opens the rooms up to air and light, a primary concern for modern architects seeking to bring more of the natural world into their constructions. Consider how different this is from the majority of conference rooms that exist behind thick walls and closed doors. Imagine receiving an invitation to take part in an important business meeting and walking in to the above space. Looking out on the surrounding city on a beautiful day can only be an overwhelmingly positive experience. The seating arrangement is also significant. Unlike the classic rectangular table with one person at the head, participants at Lingotto are invited to sit in a circle. Everyone is considered an equal player with equal footing and an equal say. It's a perfect example of how design can extend beyond aesthetics and have a real-world impact on the people operating in the space.
In addition to its egalitarian nature, the floor plan here showcases another example of visibly delicate materials imbues a place with a sense of lightness and calm. Although not shown in the above image these rooms are normally filled with plant life, reminding us of our integral relationship with nature and further blurring the lines between interior and exterior space. All of these decisions combine to impart upon visitors a sense of metaphorical growth as if the conference rooms themselves are giant plant buds sprouting from the factory's floors below. Considering that these globes are mainly used by Fiat's employees to administrate the company it is an incredibly elegant choice for Piano to draw parallels here between nature and industrial growth. In fact, this love of and respect for nature continues into the large-scale garden in the center of the premises. This enormous atrium is filled with full-size trees and all kinds of flowers, and is equally visible to all employees from the ribbon windows that stretch along the interior walls of the building.
The factory atrium
So why did Gianni Agnelli choose Renzo Piano's plan out of more than six hundred applications? Because Piano took time to learn about the Fiat Factory's historical importance to the people of Lingotto -- the very people for whom the redesign was planned -- he was able to masterfully elevate that history as he updated the building's architectural plan. In other words, he simultaneously reinforced and extended the factory's identity. Once an industrial mega-structure, the Fiat factory has become through the architect’s adaptive vision a source and symbol of art, science, business, and global communication. And all of this before the age of the internet and twenty-first century globalization. Talk about looking ahead to the future!
Further still, Piano placed his own philosophy into his work. His prominent allusions to plants, sunlight, and breathing room remind us that while all things -- even inanimate objects and intangible social processes -- grow and change, they will always retain a piece of their original identity. So was the final project successful in achieving its intentions? The citizens of Lingotto were so pleased with Piano’s work that Turin officials commissioned him to renovate the train yard next to the Fiat factory and to design an elevated public transit shuttle linking this cultural hub to the rest of the city. If repeat business is any indication of success, then all I can offer is a resounding "Yes!"
Further still, Piano placed his own philosophy into his work. His prominent allusions to plants, sunlight, and breathing room remind us that while all things -- even inanimate objects and intangible social processes -- grow and change, they will always retain a piece of their original identity. So was the final project successful in achieving its intentions? The citizens of Lingotto were so pleased with Piano’s work that Turin officials commissioned him to renovate the train yard next to the Fiat factory and to design an elevated public transit shuttle linking this cultural hub to the rest of the city. If repeat business is any indication of success, then all I can offer is a resounding "Yes!"
Jean-Marie Tjibaou Cultural Center (1991-1998)
“True universality in architecture can be attained only through connection with the roots, gratitude for the past, and respect for the genius loci."
~ Renzo Piano
New Caledonia in the Pacific Ocean The archipelago of New Caledonia lies in the South Pacific approximately fifteen hundred kilometers east of Australia. Its native people, the Kanaks, have a rich agricultural and seafaring history dating all the way back to 1600 BCE. The Kanak people enjoyed a tribal existence that remained relatively untouched by outside influence until the mid-nineteenth century when British, American, and French merchants began mining the islands for sandalwood. This initial trade in goods quickly evolved into an even more destructive trade in people. From the colonial perspective the Kanaks were less than human: they had dark skin, spoke an "exotic" language, and used primitive weapons and tools. Many even practiced cannibalism. Like the indigenous tribes in the Americas, these people were seen as ripe for the picking. To add insult to injury, Western powers used the Kanaks themselves to pick apart their own country, piece by piece. In the 1800s "blackbirders" began kidnapping Kanaks from their homes and bringing them to other parts of the island and parts of Australia to use as slave labor. The French led the charge in this region, exerting their force whenever they felt like it and denying any and all profits to the Kanak people.
A number of skirmishes and revolts occurred over the following decades, but with their lack of large-scale social and military organization, the Kanaks found themselves at a hopeless disadvantage. It wasn't until the end of World War II, when forty-plus years of greed and egoism had ravaged the entire world, that the trend towards decolonization finally found its feet. For their part, France granted all New Caledonians French citizenship regardless of their ethnicity. By this time a complex mix of peoples brought together by the tangle of profit-seeking and people-displacement had created class divisions imposed from above. Despite this ostensible show of respect, the Kanaks had no interest in joining the enemy who had mercilessly disrespected them for far too long. They quickly formed political factions centered around pro-independence movements and their love of their own indigenous culture.
A number of skirmishes and revolts occurred over the following decades, but with their lack of large-scale social and military organization, the Kanaks found themselves at a hopeless disadvantage. It wasn't until the end of World War II, when forty-plus years of greed and egoism had ravaged the entire world, that the trend towards decolonization finally found its feet. For their part, France granted all New Caledonians French citizenship regardless of their ethnicity. By this time a complex mix of peoples brought together by the tangle of profit-seeking and people-displacement had created class divisions imposed from above. Despite this ostensible show of respect, the Kanaks had no interest in joining the enemy who had mercilessly disrespected them for far too long. They quickly formed political factions centered around pro-independence movements and their love of their own indigenous culture.
Unfortunately, this leap into the opposite extreme (which, to be clear, was completely justified on the part of the Kanaks) led to the same problems that plagued nearly every other decolonized people around the world. Still bitter from a century of slavery and manipulation, these factions increasingly instigated violent encounters with the colonial French who remained on the island. For nearly fifty years fighting raged between the French and Kanaks and amongst various Kanak groups with different political aspirations for their country. Then, in 1989, it all came to a head when a French-loyalist Kanak assassinated Jean-Marie Tjibaou, the leader of the popular Kanak and Socialist National Liberation Front.
As a political activist Tjibaou had rallied for the spread of Kanak art and education across the entire island, even organizing the Melanesia 2000 festival to do just this. Having studied at the Sorbonne, one of the world's most prestigious art and educational institutions, Tjibaou dreamed of establishing a similar center dedicated to his native people and located in his native country. In 1990, desperate to avoid a war following Tjibaou's assassination, the French sought a way to make amends and cool tensions while the Kanaks prepared to govern themselves. They proposed to make Tjibaou's dream a reality. They promised to finance a monument to the Kanaks and held an international design competition to erect a monument to the archipelago's native culture. After considering many proposals the Kanaks chose Renzo Piano's plan for an ambitious multicultural center prominently located on the banks of New Caledonia's capital city, Nouméa.
As a political activist Tjibaou had rallied for the spread of Kanak art and education across the entire island, even organizing the Melanesia 2000 festival to do just this. Having studied at the Sorbonne, one of the world's most prestigious art and educational institutions, Tjibaou dreamed of establishing a similar center dedicated to his native people and located in his native country. In 1990, desperate to avoid a war following Tjibaou's assassination, the French sought a way to make amends and cool tensions while the Kanaks prepared to govern themselves. They proposed to make Tjibaou's dream a reality. They promised to finance a monument to the Kanaks and held an international design competition to erect a monument to the archipelago's native culture. After considering many proposals the Kanaks chose Renzo Piano's plan for an ambitious multicultural center prominently located on the banks of New Caledonia's capital city, Nouméa.
The Tjibaou Cultural Center as approached from the southeast
As a European among people whose colonial wounds were still smarting, Piano took great care to work with the structure's beneficiaries rather than against them. It was of the utmost importance to all parties involved that a neocolonial perspective not be forced into the design. Furthermore, Tjibaou's death had torpedoed New Caledonia into the global consciousness, and Piano knew that what was built would not only operate as a historical symbol to the Kanaks and as an introduction of Kanak culture to the rest of the world, but as a powerful symbol of the right to self-government.
The original intended site for this project was in the heart of downtown Nouméa where the architecture was decidedly French colonial. The New Caledonians felt that erecting their art and history museum here would make the biggest statement on the strength of their native culture. As it turned out, the actual space allotted to the project was not in the city center but on the banks of a lagoon on the western side of the island. Initially a disappointment, this change in location turned out to be a boon for Piano's team. The new site meant significantly more space to work, more island flora to incorporate, and a dramatically sweeping vista to set the stage. Additionally, visitors approaching New Caledonia from the west would now be greeted by the Tjibaou Cultural Center rising high above the treetops.
With these new opportunities in mind, Piano set about designing something far different from anything in his portfolio at the time. In contrast to the singular masses of Lingotto and the Centre Georges Pompidou, the architect divided the various facilities of the Cultural Center into ten structures, or "cases", separate in function yet unified in design.
The original intended site for this project was in the heart of downtown Nouméa where the architecture was decidedly French colonial. The New Caledonians felt that erecting their art and history museum here would make the biggest statement on the strength of their native culture. As it turned out, the actual space allotted to the project was not in the city center but on the banks of a lagoon on the western side of the island. Initially a disappointment, this change in location turned out to be a boon for Piano's team. The new site meant significantly more space to work, more island flora to incorporate, and a dramatically sweeping vista to set the stage. Additionally, visitors approaching New Caledonia from the west would now be greeted by the Tjibaou Cultural Center rising high above the treetops.
With these new opportunities in mind, Piano set about designing something far different from anything in his portfolio at the time. In contrast to the singular masses of Lingotto and the Centre Georges Pompidou, the architect divided the various facilities of the Cultural Center into ten structures, or "cases", separate in function yet unified in design.
Two of the three groups as seen from the lagoon side
Ten structures are divided into three groups, and one case in each group is taller than the others, symbolizing the larger abode of a tribe's chief. The first group is used as exhibition space: a permanent collection of native art, musical instruments, and historical artifacts is on display as well as a gallery showcasing seasonal exhibits of contemporary Kanak art. One of the buildings in this section contains a partially-sunken auditorium and amphitheater for musical and theatrical performances not unlike the one Piano designed at Lingotto.
The second group serves as the offices of New Caledonia’s historians, curators and administrative personnel. A conference hall allows for speaking engagements and has brought a plethora of international speakers to Nouméa. A public multimedia library with books and internet has dramatically broadened New Caledonians’ access to global cultural information, unheard of during their colonial history. Running alongside one of these buildings, a series of terraced steps has been converted into a garden where samples of the island’s vegetation are grown and on display for citizens and visitors alike.
The third group is devoted to artistic education and is perhaps the most frequented by the Kanak people. It includes an art school for local children and a community center offering dance, music, painting and sculpture classes.
The second group serves as the offices of New Caledonia’s historians, curators and administrative personnel. A conference hall allows for speaking engagements and has brought a plethora of international speakers to Nouméa. A public multimedia library with books and internet has dramatically broadened New Caledonians’ access to global cultural information, unheard of during their colonial history. Running alongside one of these buildings, a series of terraced steps has been converted into a garden where samples of the island’s vegetation are grown and on display for citizens and visitors alike.
The third group is devoted to artistic education and is perhaps the most frequented by the Kanak people. It includes an art school for local children and a community center offering dance, music, painting and sculpture classes.
Plan for an individual case and the overall layout on-site
Inspiration for the exteriors came from the tribal huts traditionally used as homes across the islands. Reaching the height of a one- or two-story building, these huts use a patchwork of iroko wood (similar to bamboo) for structure and woven vegetable fiber for insulation. In order to enlarge the aesthetics of these community dwellings to a bigger canvas (the tallest Cultural Center building is twenty-eight meters, the equivalent of a nine story building) Piano incorporated another of Le Corbusier's Five Points, the "free facade." This idea calls for an architect to remove the structural burden of a building from its exterior where it normally falls. By creating an exoskeleton free from any load-bearing responsibility, the architect is able to let his imagination run free and achieve jaw-dropping first impressions.
In this case, Piano bent larger pieces of iroko wood -- native to the islands and extremely pliable -- into a curvilinear grid evocative of the conference rooms at Lingotto. The typical Kanak village is laid out in a semi-circular shape and Piano’s huts mimic this curvature while the vertical and horizontal repetitions recall the wooden baskets woven by tribal females on the island. Unlike Lingotto's globes or New Caledonia's huts, however, Piano's structures remain open and "unfinished" at the top as if they are reaching out to touch the sky, a fantastic reinforcement of the Kanaks' desire to recapitulate their mores to a new world.
In this case, Piano bent larger pieces of iroko wood -- native to the islands and extremely pliable -- into a curvilinear grid evocative of the conference rooms at Lingotto. The typical Kanak village is laid out in a semi-circular shape and Piano’s huts mimic this curvature while the vertical and horizontal repetitions recall the wooden baskets woven by tribal females on the island. Unlike Lingotto's globes or New Caledonia's huts, however, Piano's structures remain open and "unfinished" at the top as if they are reaching out to touch the sky, a fantastic reinforcement of the Kanaks' desire to recapitulate their mores to a new world.
 Interwoven strands of iroko wood and straw form the skeleton and insulation of a Kanak hut |  A framework of crosshatched iroko wood is bent to form the exterior of the Cultural Center's buildings |
While the cases are in fact enclosed behind these outer shells, Piano designed a double roof system that connects them in an intelligent way to the outside elements. In this system thinly-separated pieces of laminated wood create a passive ventilation system. The strong winds that reach the island off of the Pacific Ocean travel through these narrow passageways and into the interiors. As wind passes through the slits a temperature-sensitive computer opens and closes the passageways to regulate airflow. Furthermore, the wind vibrates against staves of different widths in the same way air vibrates against human vocal chords to produce speech. This gives each hut a unique ‘voice’ as the wind blows and reinforces the importance of music and motion in Kanak identity.
The facades may harken back to native architecture but their interiors are an entirely modern beast. Sloping roofs and perfect cylinders due service to the outer shells while taking the curvilinear concept into an entirely new direction. Inside, stainless steel, glass paneling and aluminum casting -- modern touches, all -- contribute to a tastefully luxurious aesthetic. Their presence both reminds visitors and encourages New Caledonians not only to preserve their past but also to embrace their future. Piano builds a deeper layer here. In traditional Kanak villages, huts were not only used as homes, but as community meeting halls. Rituals surrounding food, spirits, and interpersonal affairs as well as socializing and community organizing occurred there. By designing the cases after these huts, and then by filling these new huts with symbols of learning and experience -- a library, a concert hall, a theatre, history books and access to the internet -- Piano excavates and memorializes even more Kanak history.
 The multimedia library |  One of the gallery spaces  Another of the gallery spaces |
The final touches -- and an elegant solution to the question of balance -- are the covered walkways and gardens that wind between the cases. Designed alongside cultural anthropologist Alban Benz and dubbed the 'path of history', this winding footpath reaches all ten structures. Amidst enormous pine trees, the branching paths traverse through gardens of flowers and trees from the archipelago's various regions. This is a place where anyone from New Caledonia can see themselves represented. The walk is intended as a meditation on Kanak philosophy and draws on the natural surroundings (furious ocean waves, intense wind, tranquil lagoon) to evoke Kanak ideas of life, evolution, death, and rebirth.
Introducing nature and light to a space, while ostensibly a Corbusierian scheme, is once again masterfully implemented by Piano. There is an incredible harmony of wild forests and manicured lines that eases the boundary between the natural world and the manufactured one, and merits a deeper interest in Kanak culture. Marie Claude Tjibaou, the widow of Jean-Marie and then the leader of the Agency for the Development of Kanak Culture, said it best: "We, the Kanaks, see [the Cultural Center] as a culmination of a long struggle for the recognition of our identity; on the French Government’s part it is a powerful gesture of restitution."
Introducing nature and light to a space, while ostensibly a Corbusierian scheme, is once again masterfully implemented by Piano. There is an incredible harmony of wild forests and manicured lines that eases the boundary between the natural world and the manufactured one, and merits a deeper interest in Kanak culture. Marie Claude Tjibaou, the widow of Jean-Marie and then the leader of the Agency for the Development of Kanak Culture, said it best: "We, the Kanaks, see [the Cultural Center] as a culmination of a long struggle for the recognition of our identity; on the French Government’s part it is a powerful gesture of restitution."
So Why Care?
Take a moment and reflect on the power of that last statement. Can you imagine a United States government that felt so shameful of its slavery and suppression of black Americans that it issued them a permanent monument on the scale of Tjibaou? Such a thing would be the most formal of apologies. First, it would require U.S. officials to recognize what their ancestors had done to Africans and African-Americans for the last two-hundred-and-fifty years. Then, they would need to verbally apologize to black Americans and promise to never let it happen again. Next, they would have to set aside land (and lots of it), administrate a design contest to find just the right superstar architect who understands the subtleties of the situation, completely fund the project, and finally actually follow through and erect the thing.
All across our planet there's a long history of architecture being gifted between nations of the modern world. After World War II the United States and the USSR pursued their own democratic and communist ideals, respectively, through the establishment of the Marshall Plan and the Molotov Plan. The idea being that architecture could influence the political and philosophical ideas of vulnerable people in overseas war-torn nations. In a more uplifting example, in the mid-twentieth century, many newly-independent African nations were gifted infrastructure (schools, apartment buildings, airports, roads, covered walkways) designed by pioneering Nordic architects and completely funded by the World Bank. In fact, a monumental architectural gift stands in my own backyard: the Statue of Liberty, the USA's very own gift from France commemorating our official secession from the British Crown.
There's a certain phrase that goes hand-in-hand with these kinds of gifts: the "architecture of diplomacy." Whether motives surrounding these donations are ulterior or overt (or some combination of the two), it can't be denied that architecture is powerful, it has meaning, it has direction, and whether artistic or no, it embodies the motives of its builders on the global stage. Keep this in mind the next time you take a walk, or go for a drive. Don't forget that everything around you was built a certain way for a certain reason. Whether the national highway system (an amazing and ambitious project in its own right) or a starter neighborhood of postwar single-family homes or a sprawling public housing project, there's a reason the structures we barely think about exist as they do. Like I said at the beginning of this essay, architecture doesn't happen by accident and it doesn't happen overnight.
In 1998, after nearly thirty years of producing pioneering designs across the world, Renzo Piano was awarded the prestigious Pritzker Prize, the highest honor in the field and considered by many to be the Nobel Prize of Architecture. During his acceptance speech he elaborated on his thoughts on the art form: "architecture mixes things up: history and geography, anthropology and the environment, science and society. And it inevitably mirrors all of them."
There's a through-line that travels between all of Piano's work and which comes from his own personal life philosophy: everything is connected; life influences art and art influences life. Wildly disparate fields of study, at least ostensibly, are actually more like overlapping brushstrokes making up the same exquisite painting. It falls on us to take the time to get close to the individual strokes, and really look at and study them. We may not all do that, but successful artists certainly do. Each new project Piano tackles has presented him with a new series of challenges and required a new set of solutions. By looking closely at the brushstrokes that already exist Piano can figure out what, where, and how to paint next.
But the architect is incorrect about one thing: architecture does not inevitably mirror these relationships. That responsibility falls upon the artist who chooses to think critically. At the Centre Georges Pompidou, at Lingotto, at New Caledonia, this artistic approach manifests in a free-spirited formalism that, while unique at each site, is united by Piano's commitment to greatness. At the end of the day, Piano and all artists like him, eagerly participate in the fundamental act of creating. The beauty of his work arises from his passion to learn and be actively engaged with the people and places around him.
So why do I care? Let's track my feelings from the outside in. I see a new Renzo Piano structure -- it's beautiful, its unique, I've never seen anything that looks like it before. I walk inside -- the interior is completely different from the exterior. There are callbacks moving in both directions that creates harmony and washes me with a calming feeling even as I excitedly explore all the intricacies of the design. After some time passes I start to wonder -- how did someone even come up with this? Why choose these materials? Why put certain rooms in certain places? So I do some research on the history of the location, on the name of the building, on the person or people who commissioned the work in the first place. And this new information integrates with my personal experiences of the place. So I go back and experience it anew, with a new understanding and perspective fresh in my mind. And on and on and on and on. Why do I care? Quite simply, I care because the way Piano cares is so fucking incredibly mind-blowing. And that's art.
All across our planet there's a long history of architecture being gifted between nations of the modern world. After World War II the United States and the USSR pursued their own democratic and communist ideals, respectively, through the establishment of the Marshall Plan and the Molotov Plan. The idea being that architecture could influence the political and philosophical ideas of vulnerable people in overseas war-torn nations. In a more uplifting example, in the mid-twentieth century, many newly-independent African nations were gifted infrastructure (schools, apartment buildings, airports, roads, covered walkways) designed by pioneering Nordic architects and completely funded by the World Bank. In fact, a monumental architectural gift stands in my own backyard: the Statue of Liberty, the USA's very own gift from France commemorating our official secession from the British Crown.
There's a certain phrase that goes hand-in-hand with these kinds of gifts: the "architecture of diplomacy." Whether motives surrounding these donations are ulterior or overt (or some combination of the two), it can't be denied that architecture is powerful, it has meaning, it has direction, and whether artistic or no, it embodies the motives of its builders on the global stage. Keep this in mind the next time you take a walk, or go for a drive. Don't forget that everything around you was built a certain way for a certain reason. Whether the national highway system (an amazing and ambitious project in its own right) or a starter neighborhood of postwar single-family homes or a sprawling public housing project, there's a reason the structures we barely think about exist as they do. Like I said at the beginning of this essay, architecture doesn't happen by accident and it doesn't happen overnight.
In 1998, after nearly thirty years of producing pioneering designs across the world, Renzo Piano was awarded the prestigious Pritzker Prize, the highest honor in the field and considered by many to be the Nobel Prize of Architecture. During his acceptance speech he elaborated on his thoughts on the art form: "architecture mixes things up: history and geography, anthropology and the environment, science and society. And it inevitably mirrors all of them."
There's a through-line that travels between all of Piano's work and which comes from his own personal life philosophy: everything is connected; life influences art and art influences life. Wildly disparate fields of study, at least ostensibly, are actually more like overlapping brushstrokes making up the same exquisite painting. It falls on us to take the time to get close to the individual strokes, and really look at and study them. We may not all do that, but successful artists certainly do. Each new project Piano tackles has presented him with a new series of challenges and required a new set of solutions. By looking closely at the brushstrokes that already exist Piano can figure out what, where, and how to paint next.
But the architect is incorrect about one thing: architecture does not inevitably mirror these relationships. That responsibility falls upon the artist who chooses to think critically. At the Centre Georges Pompidou, at Lingotto, at New Caledonia, this artistic approach manifests in a free-spirited formalism that, while unique at each site, is united by Piano's commitment to greatness. At the end of the day, Piano and all artists like him, eagerly participate in the fundamental act of creating. The beauty of his work arises from his passion to learn and be actively engaged with the people and places around him.
So why do I care? Let's track my feelings from the outside in. I see a new Renzo Piano structure -- it's beautiful, its unique, I've never seen anything that looks like it before. I walk inside -- the interior is completely different from the exterior. There are callbacks moving in both directions that creates harmony and washes me with a calming feeling even as I excitedly explore all the intricacies of the design. After some time passes I start to wonder -- how did someone even come up with this? Why choose these materials? Why put certain rooms in certain places? So I do some research on the history of the location, on the name of the building, on the person or people who commissioned the work in the first place. And this new information integrates with my personal experiences of the place. So I go back and experience it anew, with a new understanding and perspective fresh in my mind. And on and on and on and on. Why do I care? Quite simply, I care because the way Piano cares is so fucking incredibly mind-blowing. And that's art.
Selected Bibliography
Buchanan, Peter. Renzo Piano Building Workshop. London: Phaidon, 2000. Print.
Cuno, James, and Martha Thorne. Zero Gravity. Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2005. Print.
Jodidio, Philip. Renzo Piano. Cologne: Taschen, 2005. Print.
Le Corbusier. Towards An Architecture. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007. Print.
Piano, Renzo. On Tour With Renzo Piano. Oxford: Phaidon, 2004. Print.
- - -. The Renzo Piano Logbook. Oxford: Monacelli, 1997. Print.
Pizzi, Emilio. Renzo Piano. Basel: Birkhäuser Architecture, 1998. Print.
Venturi, Robert. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2002. Print.
Cuno, James, and Martha Thorne. Zero Gravity. Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2005. Print.
Jodidio, Philip. Renzo Piano. Cologne: Taschen, 2005. Print.
Le Corbusier. Towards An Architecture. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007. Print.
Piano, Renzo. On Tour With Renzo Piano. Oxford: Phaidon, 2004. Print.
- - -. The Renzo Piano Logbook. Oxford: Monacelli, 1997. Print.
Pizzi, Emilio. Renzo Piano. Basel: Birkhäuser Architecture, 1998. Print.
Venturi, Robert. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2002. Print.