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 secondary school in Crawley, West Sussex, 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 post-war architecture, and it seemed so at odds with my quintessentially British design sensibility.
There was, however, something quite intriguing about the shapes of Brutalist architecture. I remember being in London once for an exhibition at the Barbican. The famous complex felt as though it had 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 Hampshire village, and feeling this disdain towards my mum's Formica table that was pretending to be wood. It was shiny, plasticky and its 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 I guess I must concede that concrete architecture does just that. It doesn't try to hide its form or 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 towards 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 steeped in history. The rolling hills and stunning views soothe my soul. But when I take trips into Plymouth and meet friends who positively wax lyrical about the post-war buildings that must be preserved, there does arise in me a latent admiration that has always been there.
One of my brothers lives in Coventry, a city I have visited many times over the years. Famous for its post-war rebuild, it was a hopeful place full of ideas about reconciliation and restoration. Rather than trying to recreate the past, its planners boldly embraced a modern response to shaping the city.
Of course, that post-war architecture doesn't all fit neatly under one label. Coventry's heritage moves between Modernism and Brutalism, something reflected beautifully in the work of printmaker Paul Catherall.
His Sent from Coventry exhibition returned to Coventry Cathedral in the summer of 2024, celebrating the buildings that surrounded him growing up and inspired his love of post-war architecture. Looking at those colourful blocks of shape and shadow, I felt that high regard awaken in me once again.
Through Catherall's linocuts you can really see the beauty of an architectural period that is so often dismissed – and, in some cases, is in danger of disappearing. The thought comes to me: maybe I can only really appreciate Brutalism through the lens of another?
His prints capture what is important about these structures: their confidence, their strong forms and that post-war optimism as cities quite literally rose from the ashes.
Quite lovely. Not a phrase one might immediately associate with concrete slabs, but through Catherall's prints I feel I can, without reservation, cherish Brutalist architecture.
There you go, I said it.
See more of Paul Catherall's prints.
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