Brutalist architecture, often just called Brutalism, is one of the most distinctive and polarizing design movements of the 20th century. With bold, geometric forms and the extensive use of raw concrete, this architectural style was popular with architects and designers for the better part of two decades following WWII. It isn’t a style that is necessarily ‘loved.’ It’s name is a pejorative, after all, likely applied after the fact. But artifacts of this era remain part of our civic landscapes, making it an enduring topic in architectural discourse.
Brutalist Architecture: Bold Designs and Raw Concrete
At its core, Brutalism is about unapologetic use of material and form. The term “béton brut” (French for “raw concrete”) is the thought to be the origin of the name Brutalism. Whether it was truly a result of this simple translation, or whether the name came about because of the style’s cold, imposing nature is unclear.
The architects of Brutalism described their philosophy as being one that prioritized transparency, where form follows function, raw materials pushed to the forefront, in pursuit of a utopian vision. Was this truly their motivation? Or were they making a case for a stylistic experiment? We’ll never know, of course.
Brutalism emerged as an offshoot to the pre-war Modern movement, and the International Style. Post-war architects and theorists wanted to channel the tenets of Modernism into something new, that fit their vision for the future. Its stark, block-like designs prioritize form. They were bold, in-your-face designs, often evoking comparisons to sculptures or monumental works of art.
Many Brutalist structures, though sometimes misunderstood, stand as symbols of a utopian ideology that, in retrospect, was disconnected from the world most people wanted to build. At the same time, contrasting movements such as green architecture highlight a different approach, placing sustainability and human comfort at the centre of design philosophies.
Origins of Brutalism
The origins of Brutalism can be traced back to the post-World War II era, a time when societies sought to rebuild their cities. Populations were booming. New technology and gadgets were changing the way people lived and spent their time. Highways were connecting the country and plowing through city centers. Why not experiment with architecture that embodied the spirit of the times?
This design philosophy took root in Europe, particularly in the United Kingdom, where architects like Alison and Peter Smithson spearheaded the movement. Inspired by modernist pioneers such as Le Corbusier, these architects envisioned structures that were deeply expressive and forward-thinking, bright and modern. Did they set out to build the cold, grey, un-relatable buildings that they ended up becoming? Probably not.
One of Le Corbusier’s most iconic works, the Unité d’Habitation in Marseille, is often regarded as a precursor to Brutalism. With its striking use of concrete and bold geometric forms, this building laid the groundwork for what would become a global architectural phenomenon.
It’s interesting to not that much what gives Unite a lasting appeal is the use of colorful patterns painted on the concrete that give the building some life and energy. This runs contrary to the principles of brutalism, but showcases that Le Corbusier saw the importance of building a level of human connection into the stark regularity of the design.
Myths of Brutalist Design
When you read about modernist architecture, and brutalist architecture specifically, you’ll find terms repeated that create the mythology underlying the design style. These grand terms are stated as though they are facts without question, and it’s easy to read past them and accept them. But as a person that likes to ask questions, I can’t help but take a pause and give these concepts a closer look.
From there, it’s apparent (my opinion) that architects—for the most part—wanted to make buildings that looked a certain way, that followed a stylistic vision, and then used these terms as arguments to sell the designs to their clients. They wanted flat roofs, rectangular planes, graphic compositions, large windows, and so on. None of these are necessarily bad, but the theoretical justification for them doesn’t necessarily hold water.
Here are a few examples:
Honesty
The concept of ‘honesty’ was one of the core principles of the Modernist architecture movement, with Brutalism furthering this philosophy. The idea was that traditional architecture had decorations on it that weren’t integral to the structure or performance of the building. This, as a result, made the design dishonest, to the point of being amoral. This was obviously a product of the times, and based on popular political ideology, but looking at it today, it’s hard not to ask some questions. And yet, when you read about modernism and its offshoots, the idea is thrown in there as though it were fact, and we read through it and accept it without a second thought.
Let’s not do that, for the purposes of this article. In reality, there’s no reason that a stone or brick wall is less ‘honest’ than a concrete wall. There’s no reason that, because you can’t see the wood studs/posts behind the wood siding on a framed wall, that it is somehow morally questionable. Or even that having a skilled carpenter or master stone carver create intricate mouldings or details for a building should be frowned upon.
It may or may not fit your tastes, but let’s leave the sense of high morality out of it. Some might even argue that many of the details and forms found in traditional architecture that were discarded as being frivolous did, in fact, serve a functional purpose, putting elements in places to protect your building from wind, sun and water. Discarding these details explains, at least to some extent, why many modernist and brutalist buildings performed badly over time.
Functionality/utility
What makes something more ‘functional’? The modernist ideal that ‘form follows function’ is a foundational idea within its lore. It sounds nice. Like a revelation even. But when you start asking questions, you see some cracks emerge. Was non-modernist architecture not designed around function? you ask. Were traditional buildings designed and built frivolously, with no regard for performance, durability, or the people using them? Of course not… (my opinion.) Whether it’s a Roman courtyard house, a farm cottage or a cathedral, it would be hard to genuinely put forth an argument that they weren’t designed almost entirely to serve their function.
What is the function of a building? Here are a few ideas to consider:
- Does your roof keep out water?
- Does your house keep you warm when it’s cold out, and cool when it’s hot out?
- Do you get natural light coming in? Is it bright enough where you need it, or is there glare where you don’t want it?
- Does it make you feel good? ie. Does your church give you a sense of awe and wonder? Does your home make you feel comfortable and safe?
- Is it a great place to have your friends and family over; to entertain?
- You get the idea. Some are objective and measurable. Some are subjective, but all can be considered part of your building’s ‘function’.
Also, if we’re being honest, a flat roof isn’t the most functional decision for every climate, especially places that have rain or snow. Therefore to truly take on ‘form follows function’ we have to be open to the idea that a traditional, time-tested form or detail might be the most functional, rather than being locked in to a specific style or ideology. That’s not to say that a flat roof doesn’t look ‘cool’ in some cases.
Modernism gave us some great spaces, without question. We love big, open rooms, ample space, big, bright windows. Rooms with this ‘modern’ feel are part of nearly every project we do. But even that doesn’t mean that this type of space is the most ‘functional’ for every purpose.
Affordability
Everything you read about brutalist architecture was that one of its main goals was to be more affordable than other design/constructions styles. It stemmed from an egalitarian ideology, after all. Many Brutalist projects were build as prototypes for housing the masses. But when we look deeper, there is no evidence that a brutalist building cost any less than any other building with a similar level of finish or detail.
In all likelihood, most brutalist buildings were expensive to build, and turned out to be expensive to maintain. They were ‘high-design’ after all. This is why we still study them. Love them or hate them, most of the examples of brutalist architecture that we still hold in high regard were intricately designed by talented designers. They are graphically and geometrically rigorous. They are imposing and grand. This level of design isn’t usually cheaper than making the most basic structure possible.
Not to mention, concrete has problems over time. Giant windows have problems over time. Any money you saved by not having to put a paint or finish on the concrete wasn’t likely to offset other costs.
As we’ve learned, for better or for worse, dimensional lumber (2x4s etc.) and sheet goods (plywood, drywall etc.) are WAY cheaper than any modernist prefab steel or concrete. (Taking architects out of the equation has also made things way more affordable. Repeatable ‘cookie-cutter’ homes in suburbia are the predominant archetype in affordable housing, driven primarily by the market, rather than any grand philosophical vision. For what it’s worth)
Now that we have that out of the way… let’s consider why we study brutalist architecture, and where it fits in the the living tradition of architecture. What is it about these designs that we can learn from? What was successful, what wasn’t?
