8. Roz Barr

Architect and Maker
London - UK

‘Time & Translation’

Many aspects of literature are quite rigid. We have a lot of assumptions around how we read. We assume that we start at the beginning and must read until the end; that if a text is written and printed then it must be absorbed in a linear way. There is a lot of shame associated with ‘dipping in and out’. When teaching, I am constantly trying to work out people’s assumptions, to understand where they are going. This normally involves knocking things over, like cats in YouTube videos. You may try to steer them away from one reference, or point out that they are giving a certain resource too much respect.

Could you give us a brief introduction to the library, how it has formed, and what it is largely formed of?

I've always bought, loved, and collected books. When I was a student in Manchester and Glasgow I worked in the art department of Waterstones. I was also writing my dissertation, which led me to a number of texts. This period marks the point at which I really started buying, or collecting, books. This formulated a small collection; old AA Files, books by Peter Wilson, books on drawing.

There are a number of books in the office, as well as a collection at home. These largely stay at home and are older books, some of which have become quite valuable. There are a number of art books and catalogues, alongside a substantial library of novels.

Saul Steinberg by Harold Rosenberg (Alfred A. Knopf, 1978) is a good example of a book I look at regularly. Steinberg, who was a cartoonist for the New York Times, created these wonderfully intriguing drawings. Eric Parry introduced me to his work. I think the illustrations are fantastic because he draws the atmosphere. You witness the activity of places through the addition of figures, something we often forget as architects. We have used these as references in projects, but also with students to discuss thinking through drawing.

The drawings feel quite similar to those of Lina Bo Bardi. They almost feel collaged. Drawings that you could not produce with a computer.

That's true. In a similar sense, there is a humour to the drawings, alongside a sense of perspective and scale. Steinberg often paints a wonderful horizon where you get a sense of moving beyond the images.

When I got my first office on St. John Street, I realised I had amassed quite a large collection; a wide variety of books, not just on architects, but also on art, theory, history, and so on. History has always been of interest and when we start a new project I will usually buy several books about that place. This process was critical in creating a culture of books in the office. It is a beautiful thing, to be able to swap, or share, books. Although the library has no order or categorisation, I am constantly adding to it. If I travel, I will often bring a book back to the office; a book to start a conversation...

One book that we use a lot in the office is Open | Close: Windows, Doors, Gates, Loggias, Filters by Anette Hochberg, Jan-Henrik Hafke and Joachim Raab (Birkhauser, 2009). I remember buying it in the Design Museum when it used to be at Butler's Wharf. It is inherently about construction and helps to form a dialogue around tectonics. I find this topic critical to discuss in the office, particularly with younger practitioners, because it is part of the process I enjoy massively. Another book that has been useful is, Alvaro Siza: Private Houses, 1954 - 2004 by Alessandra Cianchetta and Francesco Molteni (Skira, 2005). A lovely book and one of the first I bought.

Is there anything from those early, formative years that was particularly important?

There are a couple of books that were particularly important to me. I have an early catalogue of the Osaka Follies by Ara Isozaki, Cedric Price and Koji Taki (Architectural Association, 1991), which I remember buying as a student. It was an AA Publication and included work by architects such as Peter Salter, Bolles + Wilson, Christine Hawley and Peter Cook. As a student you become quite obsessed with certain things, I was fascinated by the drawings. Not all of the projects in the book were to my taste, but as a student, the drawings and models were incredibly compelling. They were so different. It felt like the point at which architectural drawing started to look and become more painterly.

It became more expressive.

Exactly. It was very expressive. I remember buying this book by Peter Wilson, Western Objects Eastern Fields: Recent Projects (Architectural Association, 1989). When you are a student you don't have much money so a book becomes this sacred thing to you. Peter Wilson is still someone today that I really admire. A lot of it was paper architecture, but the representation of drawing became almost cinematic. The technique is all about getting depth within the drawings themselves.

It is also printed beautifully. The depth is made evident in the layers of the printing.

The spatial quality of his drawings are compelling. When I visited Drawing Matter, which I use a lot as a reference as well as a teaching aid, I managed to see several Peter Wilson drawings that Niall Hobhouse had acquired.

What was it like seeing those drawings that you had revered as a student?

It was amazing. He had one drawing, a long section from a project in Berlin, that you could unfold. An imagined city. It must have been three or four metres long, but it folded up into this tiny book. Another fascinating form of representation - where the drawing becomes an object. It starts to transform his thinking, his ideas. You realise the project as you move through it, as you continue to unfold the layers. You can start at one end, or the other, which makes it feel like a street. It was very special to be able to see that.

These drawings were subconsciously informing me as a student. I wasn't mirroring the representation literally, but I was looking at the models a lot and the language of drawing with colour and tone. Ways of expressing depth in two-dimensional drawings.

They are beautiful drawings. They almost have a graphic novel quality to them. They are very simple in their use of colour.

Definitely. Scale was another factor that was important. You can see pieces of furniture here, but in many ways they feel like small buildings, or an elevation. In Western Objects Eastern Fields, Wilson discusses how he brings these elements together. It was definitely a book I referred to a lot. I found the process of making fascinating - young architects creating experimental architecture.

It is interesting to discuss these particular books as being formative to your thinking, or at least method of representation, because they are vastly different to the type of work you create. A lot of your work has a weight and certain tactility. There is a material sensibility to it.

Absolutely. I remember going to see a project by Coop Himmelblau in Tokyo and thinking it was terrible. It was so flimsy and badly detailed. The paper drawings rarely translated well to the final building and the tectonic detail. After graduating, I went to work for architects like Dixon Jones and Eric Parry. Here, I developed a process of thinking around how to construct a building.

It is an interesting relationship. The contrast between those two elements of your progression.

As a student at that time, it was the work of architects like Peter Wilson and those showcased in the Osaka Follies that was enlivening. Although the classics, like Borromini, stuck with you it was this new form of architecture that was the most exciting. I also used to read a lot of theory books, many of which I still reference whilst teaching. These are largely concerned with the phenomenology of space. There was a book by Alessandra Latour, Louis I. Khan: Writings, Lectures, Interviews (Rizzoli, 1991) that was critical to my thinking at the time and still informs it today. I was also fascinated by Beatriz Colomina. I was interested in writing about architecture, as much as the architecture itself.

This is another book that I was interested in at the time, Pedagogical Sketchbook by Paul Klee (Faber & Faber, 1968). I wrote my dissertation on proportion and language so this became an important reference for me. It is a fantastic piece of work. It begins to help you understand the composition and proportional thinking within Klee's paintings; how he thinks about the vertical or horizontal. I have realised that I don't have a specific form of proportion, or system within the architecture I create, as perhaps others do, say Robbrecht en Daem or Peter Märkli.

But there is a foundation present from readings such as this?

I do very much think about proportional representation when working through a project, particularly in plan. There is a spatial quality that is fully evident at the end. A balance, or a purity. Harmony.

I also have a number of John Hejduk books, but this one is special, Victims (Architectural Association, 1986). The drawings and the narrative are fantastic. This book, as a student, took architecture into a different form, thinking about an imaginative world. At that time, in the 90s there was a lot of work being undertaken at the universities where you did not design a building. I studied with Christine Hawley at the Bartlett where we always designed a building. Initial projects may have focused on machines as architecture for instance, but you would always develop a building from it. I was always interested in the building aspect.

Interestingly, it feels like there is a relationship between an architecture of the imagination and phenomenology. They both think deeply about the world and how it is formed and how it makes us feel.

I think it could transcend your way of thinking. How you would go about developing a brief, or your own language of architecture. It was a great tool to read. Hejduk's way of representing his ideas are very apparent. It was great to see Hélène Binet's photographs of his work at the Royal Academy in her exhibition two years ago. It was refreshing because he hasn't really received the recognition that he deserves.

There are some amazing experiments in this book. It feels quite kitsch in certain parts; investigating fairgrounds and merry-go-rounds.

There is a lot of interrogation into elements you don't typically think about as an architect. But there is something very naive about it, even the way it is drawn or constructed. Implausible. Would it make good architecture? Probably not. But it is more the humour, or expression, of Hejduk's work that I enjoyed.

Some of the text feels incredible John Cage-esque:

" 6 4 1 4 1 4 1 4 = 19

Even thought - Odd Number

Troubled

Plan clear, the rest uncomfortable

Ceiling fan of 1932

Governmental offices

Your documents please. "

It certainly does. It had a sense of being very explorative, as Cage's work is.

Around this time, Diller and Scofidio appeared on the scene. I'm not massively into their work but this was published during my time at the Bartlett, so their experimental installation work I did find appealing. It was the way in which these pieces were crafted. There was a clear influence of Duchamp within their work and the way in which furniture could alter a space. They then investigated how that could be represented again and again. It is not something I look at now and necessarily admire, but I found the thought process behind the work inspiring at the time; the energy within it. How you could transform or adapt the normal and the everyday. Very Duchamp. Where it fell down for me was in the quality of the build. It was never well made. Interesting drawings, paper architecture which they tried to translate into a built form and it didn't quite work.

It was the idea of creativity that you were interested in; how an idea is formed and tested through drawing. Are there any art books, or references that are important to you now?

Absolutely. I particularly enjoy the work of Alan Reynolds and Michael Harrison's book, Alan Reynolds: The Making of a Concretist Artist (Lund Humphries, 2011). I reference it a lot.

How would you work with a book like this, for example?

There are several key elements. Reynolds is useful when thinking about composition, or tonality. My point of reference is more attuned to artists, rather than architects.

Why do you think that is?

I enjoy it more. I think it is as simple as that.

The process becomes less literal and more intuitive. Feeling-based.

When I am thinking about forming space, or making the facade of a building, I find inspiration in how elements are brought together. Subconsciously, when I am thinking about projects, I tend to look at either historical, or art, references. As an example, I am interested in textiles, so I often look at the work of people like Anni and Josef Albers. I find textile artists' work interesting because of the ideas around layering, an element I am interested in within my own work. At the beginning of a project I will spend a lot of time drawing plans before something settles. It is within these early stages that I might pick up a book and start looking at something, which then leads me onto something else, and so on...I find Sol Lewitt's work compelling. His work calms your mind. For me, if I can do that then the ideas start to flow.

I have also been fortunate enough to work with a number of artists. Whilst at Eric Parry Architects I worked with Joel Shapiro and more recently, I have worked with Julian Stair. There are several 'material-based' artists, or makers, I find interesting.

Would these art books, or catalogues, be present during your design process? How do you work with them?

Yes, references certainly sit alongside my design process, either physically, or mentally. A painting, or an image, can often help to make my own ideas feel more thoughtful. They can help to reinforce an idea and become a useful tool when I am trying to declutter thoughts in my head. Similarly, books offer a respite in this regard.

I rarely start with an idea and then try to source x, y and z references to help improve it. Instead, I often work with the memory of something, which I will then try and find. Easier said than done when the bookshelves aren't organised!

It is an interesting thought. You have discussed how one reference can often lead to another and this idea reinforces that process, granting you opportunities to find something other than that you were looking for.

Exactly. I think I know what I am looking for but the act of browsing the shelves will always trigger another idea. It may be an exhibition catalogue, or it may be a reference I was thinking about alongside this reference before.

I also enjoy reading about cities; about place. Authors like Todd Longstaffe-Gowan provide excellent commentaries in this regard. We have worked with Longstaffe-Gowan before, whilst his book The London Square: Gardens in the Midst of Town (Bloomsbury, 2012) is very useful. I also enjoy the writing of Peter Ackroyd and his books on London, London: The Biography (Penguin Random House, 2001) and Thames: Sacred River (Chatto & Windus, 2007), amongst others. It is a light way of reading history, but I find the process can be useful to trigger ideas and thoughts that might determine a route into a project. Another fantastic book about London is by Christopher Hibbert, London: The Biography of a City (Penguin, 1980). A lot of our work is in London so I find Hibbert and Ackroyd useful to continue learning about the city.

Absolutely. London is such a complex context; there is an incredibly varied building stock, sometimes relating to its content but at other times, doing the complete opposite. You have to choose what you respond to.

Definitely. I think one of the strangest projects I have worked on is the Design District, because there was no context. The context was all new and at that time, yet to be built. It was extremely challenging.

What was your process like? Was literature involved in any way?

Absolutely not. The project was largely driven by its materiality and a desire to create a space with the feeling of a theatre. It felt like a piece of set design, or scenography. There was a lot of material research.

This is really evident in the projects; the layering of materials is fantastic.

I am pleased with how it turned out considering the difficulties of the project. It was about composition and how you could experience the building. There was no relationship between the external envelope and the interior. I did enjoy the project and because of the COVID restrictions I found a new way of working. I did not have any of my tools, including these books. It felt like I was floating...

Presumably, the ability to make models shifted emphatically, too. This must have been particularly difficult when it is such a vivid part of your practice. Were there any key references that led you to this?

Not that I could single out. After working at Eric Parry Architects for a number of years and getting to a fairly senior role, I found myself drawing less and less. When I started my own practice, I made a model for the first project. When I was at University I had made a lot of models so it felt natural to be doing so again. My first employees were also interested in model making so it became part of the practice. It is a way of thinking...

It feels like the idea of translation is critical to your practice. You spoke earlier about your passion for art books, coupled with this interest in model making, both of which require a degree of translation. A feeling, or intuition, about how an element is related, or responded to.

I have been asked many times about what it means to be a craftsperson. But I don't find that term applicable to me. I can see why people say it, with my background and early training, but model making, for me, is all about trying to make something quickly, to generate ideas. It is then about translation, as you mentioned.

Is this the main distinction for you? The translation between time and making. How does intuition fit into this?

It is definitely still intuitive; it comes from the hand. For me, it is the relationship between how we build and how we make that is important. The materiality of our built projects is a vital ingredient, but the materiality of the model does not necessarily translate to the material culture of the built form. It is not a representation of the project. Instead it is a conceptual idea, a medium through which to think. We may cast a model to achieve a certain thickness, or weight, but that does not necessitate that the building be cast. The critical element to model making is the process. Thinking through making. It is similar to the process of drawing by hand. There are a lot of memories in a drawing. You start to think, or process, how you are going to make the model, and thus, the building. I find that time incredibly valuable. In that sense, it feels quite measured.

Is there any literature that has influenced that? I know you wrote an annotation on Women Writing Architecture about Agnes Martin and her book, Writings (Hague Cantz, 1997).

A beautiful text. It was a book that I had as a student. Sol LeWitt was also a big influence at that time. There is something about proportion and composition that I find fascinating. Their work feels measured. The proportional system that Martin developed to scale pencil drawings into large format paintings resonated deeply. This has influenced my own work. When I am thinking about a project, or an idea, it has to be balanced with a strong rhythm. Symmetry can often achieve this. We make models to test these ideas, but I am not one of those architects making thirty different options of something. There may be iterations of an idea, or various developments, but I won't do countless versions. I feel like I know what I am looking for.

I find Martin's process particularly intriguing. She had such a strong intuition around what she was trying to achieve, but she was happy to sit and wait for inspiration to arrive. She was not incalculably testing to try and find an idea, but instead, waiting. When the work is complete, it either achieved that initial intention, or it went in the bin.

Totally. I can become quite agitated at the start of a project because I am thinking a lot. I don't like forcing an idea, or feeling pressured into coming up with something. There is always a sense of knowing whether you have had the idea you are looking for, or not. Sometimes I know I need to put pencil to paper, but I won't feel quite ready. It is at this point that I will make a cup of tea, or go for a walk, or gather references. When I finally come to drawing, this short interlude helps my work to feel more measured.

I found it interesting that you spoke about the silence within Martin's writing, which relates, or responds, in many ways to the slowness you have been talking about with your process.

I think silence is critical, because it is a feeling. It is not about the palpable idea of sound, but instead about harmony, or the distillation of space. It relates to calmness and the way that space is ordered. It brings to mind Samuel Beckett's quote, "Silence is order, order is silence." I think that is what Martin is striving for in her work; harmony of balance.

It is these principles we are trying to achieve in our projects; a quiet stillness that forms out of a simple idea. The courtyard houses we have just finished are a good example of this. They are not shouting, instead, they are quietly formed through geometry and composition. A balanced symmetry. They are tailored to their environment, finding their position to inhabit the area.

Were there any books on landscape that were important to this project? To this pattern of thinking...

Alvar Aalto Houses by Jari Jetsonen & Sirkkaliisa Jetsonen (Princeton Architectural Press, 2012) was a useful reference for thinking about buildings being embedded in a landscape. I find a number of Aalto's drawings, particularly the early ones, incredibly beautiful. This is mirrored in a number of his early projects that I often return to.

What is it about Aalto's work that you find so compelling?

There is a level of noise in the landscape that is interesting to consider, especially in relation to his drawings. Hard landscaping is composed in such a way that it forms a patina in the blank white space of the page. It is enthralling to consider how that is reflected in the built work and how that patina helps to settle a project into the landscape. Ultimately, it is the fascinating relationship between drawing and the built form, which considers time, materiality and composition. Isamu Noguchi has been another influential reference in this sense.

You have touched upon them briefly, but finally, it would be good to talk about novels.

One of my favourites is J. D. Salinger's, For Esmé—with Love and Squalor (Victor Gollancz, 1984). I like short stories. Don DeLillo's White Noise (Viking Press, 1985) was a great book. I'm a big fan of Gustave Flaubert. War and Peace (Penguin, 1957) by Leo Tolstoy. Lucia Berlin's, A Manual for Cleaning Women (Picador Collection, 2022) which Vera in the office recommended to me, is also worth mentioning.

Is there a specific type of novel that you lean towards?

I have thought about this on numerous occasions, but I don't think so. I picked up Empire of the Sun (Victor Gollancz, 1984) by J.G Ballard the other day which I remember reading on a train from Glasgow to Southampton when I was a student. It is a fascinating novel, discussing the horrors he witnessed as a child in a Japanese prisoner of war camp during the Second World War. It is the first of three books that form his autobiographical works. When I picked up the book, the train ticket fell out, bringing back vivid memories of that trip, wrapped up in the context of the book.

I also like cooking books. I have previously written about Elizabeth David and her book, I'll Be with You in the Squeezing of a Lemon (Penguin Books Ltd., 1995). Her writing has a simplicity to it, but it also captures a journey, perhaps helping it feel as much a novel, as a cookery book. There is a story, or memory, attached to it.

She talks more about the culture around food. I found Niki Segnit's book, The Flavour Thesaurus (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2010) compelling in that sense. She discusses combinations of foods, referencing short stories, myths, and anecdotes, alongside paired back recipes that allow space for intuition. They are not as instructive as you would find in a recipe book, giving you more space to experiment.

Exactly. These books discuss the culture of food and eating. I remember years ago when I was making a soufflé from David's book and being completely absorbed by it. I was leaning against the oven the entire time. I do enjoy cooking but I don't often follow recipes. I enjoy reading and absorbing pieces to apply in lateral ways, perhaps similar to how I use references when working.

All photography by Tim Lucas unless otherwise stated.

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8. Roz Barr

Architect and Maker
London - UK

Index

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8. Roz Barr

Architect and MakerLondon - UK

Index

Architect and Maker
London - UK