Appreciating Brutalism

I have been pondering Brutalism lately, a very polarising form of architecture, and as with many things, I feel conflicted about it. My Crawley, West Sussex, secondary school was cold, draughty, stark and grey and not a building I liked at all. I compared it to the mainly Victorian (and considerably smaller) one I had left behind in Alresford, Hampshire. That had warm red bricks and chunky radiators you could sit on. I think that concrete enclosure was perhaps my first real taste of the post-war architecture style and it seemed so at odds with my quintessentially British design sensibility. 

Paul Catherall's print of Coventry station

There was, however, I felt something quite intriguing about the shapes of Brutalist architecture. I remember being in London once for some exhibition at the Barbican, the famous complex felt like it emerged from a dystopian novel but at the same time I liked being there. It was calm, certain and imagination-provoking.

My natural leaning, when it comes to art movements, would perhaps be the Arts and Crafts period. I like the ornate and organic forms and there has always been a love of natural beauty and materials in me. In fact I have had a long-held obsession with materials being honest about what they are. I can recall being around six when we lived in our humble Victorian cottage in a tiny village in Hampshire and feeling this disdain towards my mum's formica table that was pretending to be wood. It was shiny, plasticky and it's impersonation wasn't fooling me. I thought less of it for trying. I have great respect for wood, wicker, ceramic - materials being honest about what they are. So guess I must concede concrete architecture does just that. It doesn't try to hide its form or its intention from us. It is solid, capable and boldly holding us, protecting us and containing us as buildings should. 

As life progressed I ended up in Plymouth studying an Art and Design Foundation course, another part of my journey to appreciation. A friend of mine was a photographer and she loved the Modernist and minimal architecture of the heavily bombed and rebuilt city. She was attracted to clean lines, taking immense effort, I remember, to remove the skirting boards and cornices in her flat. She leaned towards simplicity and reduction, way before it was mainstream-cool. I looked on intrigued if not fully on board. 

These days I live in a beautiful little town that is steeped in history. The rolling hills and stunning views soothe my soul. But when I take trips into Plymouth and meet with friends who are positively wax lyrical about the Brutalist buildings that must be preserved, there does arise in me a latent admiration that has always been there.

Coventry's central baths by Paul Catherall

Paul Catherall's lino prints of Coventry

One of my brothers lives in Coventry, a city I have visited many times over the years. Famous for its post war rebuild, a hopeful place full of reconciliation and restoration. Rather than looking to the past this town's planners boldly embraced a modern response to shape the city. Then recently I came across the linocuts of Paul Catherall, some inspired by this Midlands metropolis, and I felt awakened in me that high regard once again.

'Sent From Coventry' was an exhibition Catherall held in the summer and I feel through his colourful blocks one can really see the beauty of an architectural style in danger of being erased. The thought comes to me, maybe I can only really appreciate Brutalism through the lens of another? His beautiful prints capture what is important about these structures, their confidence as they rise from the ashes of war. 

Elephant Blue by Paul Catherall

Quite lovely, not a phrase one might associate with concrete slabs, but through Catherall's prints I feel I can without reservation cherish Brutalist architecture. There you go, I said it.