Gunnar Asplund's Gothenburg: The Transformation of Public Architecture in Interwar Europe 9780271065205

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Gunnar A splund’s Gothenburg

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Gunnar Asplund’s Gothenburg The Transformation of Public Architecture in Interwar Europe

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Nicholas Adams

T he P enns y lva ni a S tat e Uni v er si t y P re ss Uni v er si t y Pa rk , P enns y lva ni a

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The publication of this book was supported in part by funds from Higab AB (Gothenburg), the Birgitta and Peter Celsing Foundation (Stockholm), and the Lucy Maynard Salmon Fund, Vassar College.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-​Publication Data Adams, Nicholas, 1947– , author. Gunnar Asplund’s Gothenburg : the transformation of public architecture in interwar Europe / Nicholas Adams.   p.  cm—(Buildings, landscapes, and societies) Summary: “Explores the work of Swedish architect Gunnar Asplund, focusing on his courthouse extension (1933–36) in the port city of Gothenburg. Places Asplund’s building into the wider context of public architecture in Europe from 1900 to 1950”—​Provided by publisher. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-271-05984-6 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Göteborgs Radhus (Göteborg, Sweden). 2. Göteborg (Sweden)—​Buildings, structures, etc. 3. Asplund, Erik Gunnar, 1885–1940. 4. Public architecture—Sweden—Göteborg—History— 20th century. 5. Public architecture—Europe—History—20th century. I. Title. II. Series: Buildings, landscapes, and societies.

Copyright © 2014 The Pennsylvania State University All rights reserved Printed in China by Oceanic Graphic International Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802-1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-​free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—​Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992. Frontispiece: Map of the city of Gothenburg, 1921, detail (fig. 3).

na4475.s82g673 2014 725’.15094867—​dc23 2014005737

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Contents



List of Illustrations

vii

Acknowledgments xvii

List of Abbreviations

A Note on Translation

Introduction: Public Architecture in the Modern World

xxi xxiii 1

Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sweden: Gothenburg and Its Courthouse

12

Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Asplund’s Multiple Visions, 1913–1937

35

Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Asplund’s Building and Modern Law

78

Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . Asplund’s Reputation and the Catastrophic Reception

123

Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Managing Modernisms at Home

144

Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Public Architecture After Asplund

174

Notes 213

Bibliography 235

Index 249

v

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Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 1934–36, view from the northeast. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985109-072. Photo: Stig Sjöstedt.   5 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 1934–36, view of the interior hall, looking from east to west. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-079. Photo: Stig Sjöstedt.   8 Map of the city of Gothenburg, 1921. From Historiskt kartverk över Göteborg upprättat för Jubileumsutställningen i Göteborg 1923 (Gothenburg: Wald. Zachrisson, 1923). Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg.   9 Gunnar Asplund, Karl Johan School, Gothenburg, 1915–24, main façade. Photo: author.  10 Map of Sweden showing the sites of major interwar town halls and courthouse buildings. GingkoMaps project.   13 Erik Dahlbergh, old courthouse, Jönköping, 1692–99, façade. Knut Björlingson.  15 Martin Nyrop, Copenhagen Town Hall, 1892–1905. John Keren, Copenhagen.   16 Pierre de la Roche, Vadstena Castle, 1555–99. Bengt Wennlund, Upplandsmuseet, Uppsala, 1918–23.  17 Isak Gustaf Clason, Norrköping Courthouse, 1907–10.   19 Carl Westman, Stockholm Courthouse, 1911–15. Svenska litografiska, Stockholm.  19 John Leonard Björkfeldt, Stora torget, later Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, ca. 1840. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GM: 7816.   21 Gothenburg Courthouse, reconstruction drawing. From C. R. A. Fredberg, Det gamla Göteborg: Lokalhistoriska skildringar, personalia och kulturdrag (Gothenburg, 1921), 2:468.   22 Gothenburg Courthouse, reconstruction views showing its expansion. Courtesy of Ewa Malinowski and Solveig Schulz, from Malinowski and Schulz, Ny puts på gammal fasad: Fasadrenovering av Göteborgs rådhus (Stockholm: Statens råd för byggnadsforskning, 1982), 14.   23 Aerial view of Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, looking west. G. T. & Co.   24 Plan of Gustaf Adolf square before the intervention of Gunnar Asplund. Drawing by Jack Self, London.   25 Swedbank, originally Rikets Sänders Bank, Södra Hamngatan, Gothenburg, architect Viktor Adler, 1886. Photo: author.   27 vii

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Figure 33

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Bengt Erland Fogelberg, statue of Gustav Adolf II, 1849.   27 Gustav Adolfsdagen celebrations, ca. 1900. Axel Stiberg & Co., Gothenburg.  29 Elias Martin, view of central Gothenburg across Stora Hamnkanal to the west, ca. 1780. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GM: 18777.   31 Lithograph after drawing by C. G. Berger, 1859. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GhmPK:228.  32 Sigfrid Ericson, proposal for a new courthouse and reorganized Gustaf Adolf square. From Ericson, Bidrag till lösning af Göteborgs rådhusfråga (Gothenburg: Wald. Zachrisson, 1905), 8.   33 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, competition entry “Andante,” 1913, perspective collage, view toward the west. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, B2047.   37 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, competition entry “Andante,” 1913, view of the southern face. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, B2049.  37 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, competition entry “Andante,” 1913, ground plan. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, B2040.  38 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, revised elevation design dated 12 July 1916. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A538.   39 Ernst Torulf, Gothenburg Central Post Office, 1913–25, view from the west. Jolin & Wilkenson, Gothenburg.   39 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, renovation proposal, November 1915, aerial view. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, E84.   40 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, renovation proposal, November 1915, plan. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, E83.   41 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, renovation proposal, winning entry for the competition of 1918. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A 559: 2.  42 Elias Martin, view of central Gothenburg across Stora Hamnkanal to the west, ca. 1780, detail. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GM: 18777.   44 Gunnar Asplund, proposal plan for the renovation of Gustaf Adolf square, 15 February 1920. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, DR2000:0024.   45 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for the opening of the west wall of Gustaf Adolf square, ca. 1919. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, DR1999:0022.   46 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square seen from the south, with the proposed new city hall and a balloon seller, ca. 1920. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A595.  46

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Figure 46

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Figure 49

Gunnar Asplund, proposal for the façade to the courthouse extension, 15 February 1920. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, DR1994:0109.   47 Gunnar Asplund, north-​south section through the proposed courthouse extension. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-841 HE.  48 Proposal for the renovation of Gustaf Adolf square, June 1924, view from the south. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A560.   49 Arvid Bjerke, R. O. Swensson, Ernst Torulf, and Sigfrid Ericson, Gothenburg Art Museum, 1923, at the head of Götaplatsen. Malmeströms konstförlag, Gothenburg.  50 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, proposal of 1925, façade. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-11. Photo: Matti Östling.  52 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse Extension, proposal of 1925, interior hall. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-14. Photo: Matti Östling.   53 Carl Bergsten, Liljevalchs Konsthall, Stockholm, 1913–16, entry hall. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1962-102-030.   54 Arvid Bjerke and F. O. Peterson, Amerikahuset, Gothenburg, 1919–25. A. B. Götebörgs Konstförlag.  55 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, proposed façade, 1934. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-15.   59 Carl Bergsten, Gothenburg City Theater, proposal, 1927. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A15005.  60 Carl Bergsten, Gothenburg City Theater, proposal, 1930. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A14961.   60 Carl Bergsten, Gothenburg City Theater, completed 1934, view from the west with Götaplatsen and the statue of Poseidon by Carl Milles. Carl Alfred Träff, Gothenburg.  61 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, 24 May and 6 July 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-18. Photo: Nikolaj Alsterdal.  62 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, spring–summer 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-984.  63 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, spring–summer 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-986 HE.  63 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, winter 1936(?). Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1032 HE.   64 il l us t r at ions

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Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view across the courtyard to the glass wall of the new building, late 1934. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-878.   65 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view from the inside to the south, summer 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-021086 HE.  65 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, proposed plan, September 1925. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-10. Photo: Matt Östling.  66 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, proposed plan, dated 26 June 1935. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, Byggnadsnämnden, Byggnadsavdelningen, Bygglovsritning Nordstaden 11:7 ritning nr. 32509 13, 1935.   67 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for a courtroom, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1392 HE.   68 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for a Bible stand, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1498 HE.   68 Gunnar Asplund, design for the chair and table for the accused, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1998-02-1637 HE, recto. Photo: Nikolaj Alsterdal.   69 Gunnar Asplund, alternative study for the height of the judge’s platform, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1998-02-2363.   69 Gunnar Asplund, interior decoration in the chief magistrate’s chamber in the old courthouse, 1936–37. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1962-101-1430. Photo: Stig Sjöstedt.   70 Gunnar Asplund, study for courtroom lighting, showing changes in design between 1937 and 1938. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-2242.  71 Gunnar Asplund, designs for a wicker chair, July–August 1936. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1834.   72 Gunnar Asplund, design for the façade of the Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 1936–37. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-993.  73 Ivar Johnsson, The Guilty and the Good, 1936. From Dagens nyheter, 4 November 1936, p. 1.  74 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, modern collage reflecting what Asplund published in 1939 as the design “approved by the committee in 1937.” From Göteborgs rådhus: Om- och tillbyggnad 1935–1937; Berättelse avgiven av Rådhusbyggnadskommittén år 1938 (Gothenburg: Oscar Isacson), 47. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-072, photo: Stig Sjöstedt; collaged with Ivar Johnsson’s competition entry from Dagens nyheter, 4 November 1936, p. 1.  75

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Figure 81

Erik Grate, models for the reliefs to be inserted in the windows, 1937. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-105.   76 Gerhard Henning, Naked Girl, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, courtyard, 1939. Photo: author.   77 Alexander Z. Grinberg, House of the Soviets, Nizhnii Novgorod, 1929–32. Photo: Anatolii Vasil’evich Skurikhin, Photostudio Izogiz, Moscow.   79 Willem Dudok, Hilversum Town Hall, 1928–31.   80 Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret, photomontage for the League of Nations, Geneva, Switzerland, 1926–1927. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH 1980:1015:325. © 2015 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris / F.L.C.   81 Tony Garnier and Jacques Debat-​Ponsan, Boulogne-​Billancourt Hôtel de Ville, 1931–34. Abeille-​cartes, 8 rue du Caire, Lyna-​Paris, Éditions Nozais.   82 Tony Garnier and Jacques Debat-​Ponsan, Boulogne-​Billancourt Hôtel de Ville, 1931–34, main hall. Archives municipales de Boulogne-​Billancourt.   83 Boris Iofan, perspective drawing for the Palace of the Soviets, Moscow, after 1934. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH 1998:0026:005; gift of Howard Schickler and David Lafaille.   84 Marcello Piacentini, Palazzo di Giustizia, Milan, 1931–41. Guido Colombo.   85 Courthouse extension building, Leipzig, 1933–36. From Hermann Seeger, Öffentliche Verwaltungsgebäude (Leipzig: J. M. Gebhardt’s Verlag, 1943), 83.   86 Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, façades facing Gustaf Adolf square. Underlying blueprint dated March 1938. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste.   88 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, Köpmansgatan elevation. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste.   88 Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, first-​floor plan. Underlying blueprint last corrected 1987. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste.  89 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view to the southwest along Köpmansgatan at the level change. Photo: author.   90 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, rear (western) façade, facing the Kristine Church. Photo: author.   90 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the courtyard and glass wall to the extension. Photo: author.   91 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, revolving-​door entrance to the main hall. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-44-145.  92 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the area next to the glass wall. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-082. Photo: Stig Sjöstedt.   93 il l us t r at ions

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Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the monumental stairs leading to the second floor. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-081. Photo: G. E. Kidder Smith.   94 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the hall toward the west. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-109-071.   95 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the hall toward the east. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-104-0165.   96 The school clock (Gymnasieklockan), Västerås.  97 Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, second-​floor plan. Original blueprint dated 1938. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste.  98 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the second-​floor barrier and consultation areas looking east. Photo: author.   99 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view across the second-​floor seating area looking west from the consultation area between courtrooms A and B. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-104-0160.   99 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of courtroom B, facing Gustaf Adolf square. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985109-089. Photo: Folke Sörvik.   100 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of courtroom E, facing the churchyard between Köpmansgatan and the Kristine Church. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-093) Photo: Guldbrandsen.   102 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, courtroom light fixture. Photo: author.  102 Elsa Gullberg, the original paragraph rug. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1989-12-056.   103 Elsa Gullberg, narrative, or “signature,” rug-​tapestry. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1989-12-054.   104 Gunnar Asplund and Sigurd Lewerentz, Woodland Cemetery, view across the entry. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH1988:0137. Photo: Carl Gustaf Rosenberg.   112 Gunnar Asplund, Stockholm Public Library, entry hall, with scenes from Homer’s Iliad and the Adam and Eve door. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH1988-0058. Photo: Carl Gustaf Rosenberg.  113 Glass water fountain on the second floor. Photo: author.   114 Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, section east-​west through the courtyard. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste.  115 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, staircase, detail of the risers and treads. Photo: author.  115

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Gunnar Asplund, “Walking, then and now.” From Asplund et al., acceptera (Stockholm: Tiden, 1931).   116 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, second floor, at the top of the stairs from the ground floor, looking right. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1966-104-164.   117 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, second floor, view to the Kristine Church at the top of the stairs from the ground floor. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-104-0158. Photo: Stig Sjöstedt.   118 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, drawing of 1925 with the hidden figure of Justice, detail. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-041-145.  121 “New Fears,” a cartoon that captures onlookers studying the new courthouse building. From Göteborgs-​tidningen, 27 October 1936, p. 2.   128 Cartoon showing Asplund as a criminal. From Göteborgs-​tidningen, 20 November 1936, p. 1.   136 “Above: the upside-​down façade, with the cellar apertures near the roof. . . . ” From Göteborgs morgonpost, 1 April 1937, p. 1.   137 “In the Spirit of Self-​Sacrifice. Professor Asplund will not change the courthouse façade.” From Göteborgs-​tidningen, 18 March 1937, p. 1.   138 View across Djugårdsviken to the Stockholm Exhibition, summer 1930. Franz Svanström.  145 Håkon and Inga-​Lena meet their first funkis villa. From “Balders Hage,” Social-​ demokraten, 8 January 1931, p. 6.   149 Bengt Romare and Georg Scherman, Swedish History Museum, Stockholm, 1935–40. Axel Eliassons konstförlag AB, Stockholm.   151 Carl-​Axel Stoltz, Malmö Art Museum, 1931–36, Borggården.   152 Gunnar Asplund, “1434–1934,” entry for the Malmö Art Museum competition, 1931, plan, original drawing lost. From Gustav Holmdahl, Sven Ivar Lind, and Kjell Ödeen, eds., Gunnar Asplund arkitekt 1885–1940 (Stockholm: Tidskriften Byggmästaren, 1943), 63. Courtesy Arkitektur förlag, Stockholm.  152 Harald Ericson, Otterhällan, Gothenburg, 1927–29. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   155 F. O. Petersson & Sons, Skeppsbrohuset, Gothenburg, 1935. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   155 R. O. Swensson, Göteborgs-​posten Building (G.P.-​huset), Gothenburg, 1933–35. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   156 Ove Gormsen, Ströms Clothing Store, Gothenburg, 1935. Ströms, Gothenburg.  156 Nils Einar Eriksson, Thule Building, Gothenburg, 1937. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   157 il l us t r at ions

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View down the east side of Kungsportsavenyn, Gothenburg, looking south, ca. 1900. Joh. Ol. Andreen, Gothenburg.   158 View to the north from the Gothenburg Art Museum down Avenyn. A. B. Percy Rippe.  159 Nils Olsson, 29 Avenyn, Gothenburg, 1934. Photo: author.   160 Nils Einar Eriksson, Gothenburg Concert Hall, 1935. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   163 Sven Markelius, Helsingborg Concert Hall, 1934. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   163 Nils Einar Eriksson, Gothenburg Concert Hall, 1935, main hall. From Göteborgs konserthus: Berättelse avgiven av Stadsfullmäktiges byggnadskommitté för konserthuset vid invigningen den 4 okt. 1935 (Gothenburg: Medén, 1935). Photo: Folke D. Sörvik.  164 Arne Jacobsen and Erik Møller, Aarhus City Hall, competition entry, 1937. From Erik Møller, Jens Lindhe, and Kjeld Vindum, Aarhus City Hall (Copenhagen: Danish Architectural Press, 1991), 8. Courtesy of Jørn Møller and Arkitektens forlag, Copenhagen.  172 Arne Jacobsen and Erik Møller, Aarhus City Hall, 1939. Aarhus stiftstidende.  173 Erik Friberger, Kungsbacka Town Hall, 1933–35, view from the train station. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   175 Erik and Tore Ahlsén, Kristianstad Courthouse and extension, 1935–37, as seen from Stora torget. Photo: author.   177 Yngve Ahlbom and Nils Stirner, Halmstad Town Hall, 1936–38, and the Appeltofft Building, as seen from Stora torget. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.  178 Cyrillus Johansson, Ludvika Town Hall, 1935–37, view from the end of Storgatan. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   180 Gunnar Leche, proposal for Uppsala Courthouse, 1938. Byggnadsnämndens arkiv, Uppsala stadsarkiv.  181 Gunnar Leche, one-point-​perspective rendering of the Uppsala Courthouse entry hall, and Gregor Paulsson, sketch of the entry hall as it would actually appear. From Upsala nya tidning, 14 June 1939.   182 Gunnar Weijke and Kjell Ödeen, Malmö Courthouse, proposal, 1938. Stadsfullmäktige i Malmö / Malmö City Archive.   183 Sune Lindström, Karlskoga Town Hall and Hotel. Arne Wahlberg, ARKM 1962-101-0348.  184 André Lurçat, Villejuif School, and Le Corbusier, Pavillon Suisse, Paris, as presented in Max Raphael’s article in Byggmästaren, no. 8 (1935): p. 48. Courtesy Arkitektur förlag, Stockholm.   186

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Figure 146 Figure 147

Figure 148 Figure 149 Figure 150 Figure 151 Figure 152

A. Aubert, D. Dastugue, J-​C. Dondel, and P. Viard, Musée d’art moderne, Paris, 1937. SAP, 12 rue Henner, Paris.   187 Percy Thomas, Swansea Guildhall, 1930–34, elevation. West Glamorgan Archive Service.  189 Reginald Uren, Hornsey Town Hall, 1933–35. Hornsey Historical Society Archive, London.  190 Culpin & Son, Greenwich Town Hall, 1935–39. Greenwich Heritage Center.  190 Robert Atkinson, Charles Holloway James, and Stephen Rowland Pierce, Norwich City Hall, 1935–38. Valentine’s postcard.   191 E. Berry Webber, Southampton Guildhall and Civic Centre, 1930–39.   192 Émile Dubuisson, Lille Hôtel de Ville, 1924–32. Éditions La Cicogne, Reims.  193 Jean-​Baptiste Mathon, Joannès Chollet, and René Chaussat, Cachan Hôtel de Ville, 1933–35. From Jean Favier, “Le nouvel hôtel de ville de Cachan,” Construction moderne 51 (1936): 483. Photo: Albin Salaün, all rights reserved.   194 Jean and Édouard Niermans, Puteaux Hôtel de Ville, 1930–34. Éditions d’art J. Poly, 19 rue de Chante-​Coq, Puteaux.   197 Pierre Mathé and Henri Calsat, Poissy Hôtel de Ville, 1935–37. Éditions d’art Guy, Lyna-​Paris Nozais Abeille-​cartes, Paris.   198 Robert Giroud, Villeurbanne Hôtel de Ville, 1930–34. Imp. B. Arnaud, Lyon-​ Paris.  199 E. Vincent Harris, Glamorgan County Hall, Cardiff, 1909–11.   200 E. Vincent Harris, Sheffield City Hall, 1919–32. Valentine’s postcard.   201 Nils Malmborg and Sven Ahlbom, Sundbyberg Town Hall, 1932. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.   202 Herman Leitenstorfer, Technisches Rathaus, Munich, 1915–28. Süddeutscher Kunstverlag, Munich.  203 Alvar Aalto, Säynätsalo Town Hall, 1949–52, passageway to the council chamber. Photo: author.  204 Saverio Muratori, Palazzo della Democrazia Cristiana, Rome, 1955–58, east façade. Giancarlo Cataldi.   205 Sven Markelius, Economic and Social Council interior, United Nations Secretariat Building, New York, 1951–52. Photo: United Nations.   210 Robert Venturi, “i am a monument.” From Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour, Learning from Las Vegas: The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1977), fig. 139. © 1977 Massachusetts Institute of Technology and used by permission of the MIT Press.   211

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Acknowl edgments

No scholarly work is undertaken without funding, and I am grateful to the institutions that undertook to support my work, starting with the Swedish-​ Bicentennial Fund (2001), the Swedish Institute (2003), the National Endowment for the Humanities (2005), and the Graham Foundation (2008). Residence at the Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, enabled me to fill out the European context for Asplund’s building (2010), and my time as a Senior Mellon Fellow at the Center for Advanced Study in the Visual Arts (CASVA) in Washington, D.C. (2012), allowed me to bring this work to completion. I am grateful to Alexis Sornin, director of the Study Centre at the CCA, Elizabeth Cropper, dean at CASVA, and Therese O’Malley and Peter Lukehart, associate deans, for generous welcomes. Research support from the Vassar College Research Committee and from the college for the endowment of the chair I have held in honor of Mary Conover Mellon since 1993 has undergirded my work. A scholar who commits the crime of changing fields in midcareer is not an easy person to support, and I am deeply appreciative of the work of those who fruitlessly (and fruitfully) wrote letters of recommendation on my behalf. I am grateful for generous help from Bengt-​Åke Engström (president of the District Court of Gothenburg), Thomas Hall (Stockholm University), Gun Schönbeck, Helena Mattisson, Stefan Högberg (RSG), Anders Larsson (Gothenburg University Library), and Anders and Christina Stendhal (Gothenburg). Many others guided me through the more obscure parts of this study. Friends gave critical readings, answered difficult questions, and shared lunches and evening meals, and I am very pleased to add their names here: Anders Bergström (Royal Institute of Technology, Stockholm), Claes Caldenby (Chalmers Technical University, Gothenburg), Eva Eriksson (Stockholm), Brian Lukacher (Vassar College), Marc Treib (University of California, Berkeley), and Kerstin Wickman (Konstfack, Stockholm). Christian Ottesen, teacher, journalist, and author, introduced me to the beauty of the Swedish language, for which I remain grateful. xvii

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Johan Mårtelius (Royal Institute of Technology, Stockholm) and Elisabeth Lillman (Stockholm), in addition to much wisdom, provided a home away from home and generously introduced me to their family. A special note of thanks is due Magnus Ringborg and Christina Lillman Ringborg. Much of my work took place in Stockholm, at the Royal Library, and I am grateful for its ever-​efficient staff. Eric De Groat, Ulla Elliasson, Susanna Janfalk, Jonas Malmdahl, and Torun Warne facilitated work at the Swedish Centre for Architecture and Design (Stockholm), and Annika Tengstrand solved many last-​minute problems there. I also used Asplund’s magnificent Stockholm City Library, the University Library of Gothenburg, and the Stockholm University Library. At home I frequented the New York Public Library, the finest general scholarly library in the world, the Yale University Library, and the Vassar College Library, where its art librarian, Thomas Hill, was a friend and resource. Vassar College’s Interlibrary Loan office proved equal to most tasks. My work on Asplund began in 1999 as a result of an invitation from Kurt Forster, then director of the Canadian Centre for Architecture, to curate an exhibition (never realized) comparing Asplund’s Courthouse extension and Giuseppe Terragni’s Casa del Fascio, Como. I am grateful for that invitation and for the pleasure of working with him and with Nicholas Olsberg, Elisabetta Terragni, Måns-​Holst Eckström, and Michael Landzelius in the exhibition’s preparation. I am especially grateful to Howard Shubert, my former student, with whom I examined all of the Asplund drawings for the first time. His many insights into modern drawing and his understanding of the nature of the architectural exhibition made the experience of study an enormous pleasure. If the text reveals unacknowledged insights that he provided, I apologize in advance. Selections from this book have been delivered as lectures over the years (at Wesleyan University, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Rutgers University, Princeton University, the Society of Architectural Historians annual meeting, the University of Rome Faculty of Engineering at Tor Vergata, the Istituto universitario di architettura Venezia, the Facoltà di architettura civile at the Politecnico di Milano, and New York University as the Walter S. Cook Memorial Lecture), and I am grateful for comments from many people at these locations,

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Ac k no w l edgmen t s

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especially Marco Biraghi, Claudia Conforti, Richard Etlin, Alberto Ferlenga, Francesco Paolo Fiore, David Friedman, Faisal Hassan, Réjean Legault, Marzia Marandolo, Tod Marder, Cammie McAtee, Luca Ortelli, Sergio Poretti, Joseph Siry, and Marvin Trachtenberg. Additionally, others have fielded my many questions or provided stimulating questions of their own: Guido Beltramini, Eve Blau, Paul Byard, Johan Celsing, Lucy Creagh, Kenneth Frampton, Therese O’Malley, Peter Papademetriou, John Pinto, Peter Reed, and Lukasz Stanek. Kevin Stevens (Fordham University) helped with the preparation of the manuscript. Giovanni de Flego (Trieste) prepared the superb line drawings of Asplund’s building. Blueprints were a generous gift of the Stadsbyggnadskontor, Gothenburg. At Vassar College, Amy Bocko worked miracles on the images, and Liliana Aguis helped in matters organizational. Nicole Griggs (Columbia University) provided research eyes on the French newspaper files. Susanne Fusso (Wesleyan University) translated Russian to English. Most important, Ellie Goodman (Penn State Press) was a loyal and sharp-​ eyed editor; her assistant, Charlee Redman, answered my many questions instantly and cheerfully; Keith Monley read the manuscript with an eagle eye and sympathetic understanding: no author was ever better served. All remaining errors and infelicities are my own. Publication has been aided by the Birgitta and Peter Celsing stiftelse (Stockholm), for which I am very grateful. During a number of memorable visits, Birgitta Celsing generously introduced me to many aspects of Swedish architecture. I am also grateful to Kicki Johansson, who enabled the book to receive a special grant from HIGAB (Gothenburg), the management corporation currently restoring Asplund’s building. She met my every request for visits to the site with patience and good humor. The Vassar College Research Committee also contributed significantly to this publication, and I am grateful to them. My own extended family provided encouragement: Robin Adams and Julie Gedalicia, Will and Jonathan Self. Alexis Self (London) helped with research in the British newspapers. Jack Self (London) provided the outline map of central Gothenburg. At home, my wife, Laurie Nussdorfer, contributed a historian’s insight into the problems of this complex story, helping me simplify and focus and providing emotional and spiritual support. A book is insufficient oblation.

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Finally, in writing this book and thinking of my own discovery of Sweden, I wish to remember my Swedish grandmother, Elisabeth von Saltza (1884–1978). She told me stories about her childhood in the old country, about Mem and Lilla Mem, the houses in which she lived as a child, about her father, the painter Carl Frederick von Saltza (1858–1905), and her mother, Henrietta Stoopendahl (1863–1905). It seemed like another world then; it seems a little closer now.

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Abbre v iations

Arch ives, Museums, Librar ies ARKM

CCA GSM LG RSG

Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, formerly Arkitekturmuseet, Stockholm (Swedish Centre for Architecture and Design). All references, unless otherwise stated, are to the drawings (without prefix) or documents (prefix D) from the office of Gunnar Asplund. Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg Landsarkivet, Gothenburg Region- och stadsarkivet med folkrörelsernas arkiv, Gothenburg

Newspapers and Governme nt Doc um e nts DN GHT GMP GP GSH GT MT NT SOU SvD

Dagens nyheter Göteborgs handels- och sjöfartstidning (also called Handelstidningen) Göteborgs morgonpost Göteborgs-​posten Göteborgs stadsfullmäktiges handlingar (Gothenburg City Council records) Göteborgs-​tidningen Morgontidningen Ny tid Statens offentliga utredningar Svenska dagbladet

Newspapers that I have consulted directly are given page references. Where I have consulted a clipping file or cited a quotation at second hand, this precision has not been possible.

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A Note on Tr ansl ation

Use of proper nouns in Swedish poses some problems for the translator. A place name, such as the main square of a town, may be called “Stora torg” or “Stora torget,” the latter to mean “the” main square. (Whether to call it one or the other is a local decision.) Regardless of meaning, I have at times employed the definite Swedish-​suffix form with proper nouns, adding as well the definite article in English before such a noun. This should present no problems to the English reader and will, I hope, only slightly irritate Swedish readers. This alternative seems preferable to translating Swedish place names into English and creating hybrid places that cannot be found on any map. I have also respected the (somewhat confusing) distinction between forms of the name of King Gustav Adolf II. “Gustav Adolf ” refers to the king’s person or the king’s statue; the main square in Gothenburg, however, though named for the same person, is written “Gustaf Adolf square.” Names of newspapers and institutions have been left in their original Swedish and abbreviated in secondary references. The original text is supplied where issues of interpretation are considered critical or where the citation exists only in manuscript and is not publicly available. Otherwise, the original language has been eliminated. Many friends helped with the translations, and to them I am grateful. Alexandra Antoni (Stockholm) checked all my translations and controlled my original transcriptions from Swedish. Translations from Swedish, Danish, French, German, and Italian are my own unless acknowledged in the notes. Translations from Dutch have been made from Italian editions of the original Dutch.

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Introduction: Public Architecture in the Modern World

H

ouses, houses, houses,” wrote the Italian architect Marcello Piacentini in 1931, “few public monumental town halls—​in some countries none at all.”1 He was not the only one troubled about the state of public architecture. A few years later, Charles Reilly, the English architect and Liverpool University professor, identified something he called the “town hall problem.”2 Though they fretted about different things, the dilemma they voiced about public architecture had percolated through the first decades of the twentieth century. In 1912 Reilly had already observed that any success achieved in architecture over the previous fifty years had been in the area of domestic and ecclesiastical architecture: “[W]e have very obviously failed in our public buildings.”3 With the beginnings of modern architecture, failure turned to crisis. Would clients and architects hold on to classical and Gothic forms and traditional building typologies to represent sovereignty and rule? Or would they support the new, progressive, forward-​looking vision? Of course, compromises could always be sought and in many cases were found, but the relationship had to be negotiated each time, within each country, province, city, town, and village. Architectural tastes and trends might move like the jet stream across regional and national boundaries, but decisions about public architecture were made by parliamentarians, mayors, town

w

councilors, and judges: men and women wielding considerable local power but with relatively little knowledge of, or even particular aptitude for, architecture. Thus, while we can recognize from afar the progressive adoption of modern styles of architecture in the public sphere, close up the record appears much less even, as clients and architects struggled over their priorities: tradition or modernity, nationalism or cosmopolitanism, place or time, memory or prophecy. And in what proportion? Disputes were all too common. Complaints about the obtuseness of those in power and the dampening blanket of bureaucracy run through the records. As the architect Albert Laprade told an audience in 1935, “In France, if you work for the state or a public institution, you face innumerable review committees, juries, or public opinion, itself influenced by a thousand contingencies.”4 No surprise then that the bumpy development of public architecture in the twentieth century sometimes seems to be out of touch with the wider world of architectural fashion. No surprise either that the comparatively linear development of housing, for example, is so much more attractive to historians than the rocky road of public building. The key issue for clients and their architects in this period was finding an appropriate form of “monumentality.” Monumentality was a venerable architectural quality—​the 1

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weightiest, in a sense. It created what an admirer of Nietzsche might disdain as the illusion of permanence, but it granted to those who believed in its virtues an identity that seemed without the limits of time. Among its most attentive students had been the early art historian, Alois Riegl.5 The term derived from the idea of a monument, a lasting memorial or a building that spoke to the long-​term values of society. It came into common use in the early nineteenth century as historians sought to distinguish the achievements of primitive peoples from the durable achievements of the classical world. Monumentality embodied civilization and its intellectual and spiritual values. John Ruskin evoked its qualities in “The Lamp of Power,” one of the chapters in The Seven Lamps of Architecture (first edition, 1849), when he referred to that “mysterious majesty, which we remember with an undiminished awe.”6 Temples, churches, tombs, and palaces had been the signal monuments of societies, easily recognized by their well-​known typology. Scale and fine materials played important roles here—​and in classicizing contexts, symmetry too. In his fictional dialogue Eupalinos (1921), Paul Valéry, in the person of Phaedra, describes the awesome power required for the architecture of the courthouse, eloquently evoking the necessity of monumentality: But the habitations of justice should speak to the eye of the rigour and equity of our laws. Majesty befits them, masses completely bare; and an awe-​inspiring amplitude of wall. The silences of those bleak surfaces are scarce broken, at far intervals, by the threat of a mysterious door, or by the dismal outline of thick iron bars against the gloom of the narrow window they guard. All here pronounces sentence—​everything 2

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is eloquent of penalties. The stone gravely declares that which it shuts in; the wall is implacable, and this work of stone, conforming so closely to the truth, strongly proclaims its stern purpose.7 Monuments like these imprinted themselves on the memory. But modern or traditional? It would seem that adherence to the values of monumentality in public architecture required nothing more than historic style at a grand scale. Yet government itself was not immune to change as new towns, new constitutions, new laws, new voters, and new social classes entered the public realm. They required new policies and programs and demanded new forms of expression in their architecture. While governments and their rulers wanted to see themselves as the inheritors of national, regional, urban, or judicial traditions, they also wanted to leave their mark, showing the distinctiveness of their contribution in their time. But how to do that? “Monumentality,” as Elizabeth Mock, then director of the Department of Architecture at New York’s Museum of Modern Art observed in 1944, was a “shifty” term.8 Even a traditionalist like Reilly wanted to leave something new and distinctive; the “modern world had to be built.”9 After visiting the United States, he championed Beaux-​Arts architects such as McKim, Mead & White. “I am back from America with a new scale of life,” he announced in 1912.10 What Reilly called the “monumental classic” created a universal language of urban form, “familiar enough . . . to be culturally accessible, and so to become monumental in appearance.”11 The key to Reilly’s monumentality was traditional forms over modern structure. Others’ monumentality required a more thoroughgoing modernization. In Sweden, the historian, critic, and cultural

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entrepreneur Gregor Paulsson, echoing positions of the Werkbund (an association of artists, architects, designers, and industrialists), redefined monumentality in his book on the new architecture (1916): in the new monumentality, as he called it, but monumentality nonetheless, historical ornament was suppressed and function revealed.12 Though there were many other stylistic avenues away from the conventional historicism of the nineteenth century, the Werkbund was a well-​traveled route toward modernity for architects from northern Europe and a significant resting place for those wanting to make a modern public architecture. Even so, by the teens, under the impact of modernism, old (and new) monumentality had earned opponents for whom there was no reconciliation. “I oppose and despise . . . [a]ll classical, solemn, hieratic, theatrical, decorative, monumental, frivolous, pleasing architecture,” wrote the Futurists Antonio Sant’Elia and Filippo Tommaso Marinetti in 1914.13 In their entry for the League of Nations competition in 1927, Hannes Meyer and Hans Wittwer presented a functionalist structure that rejected the old-​fashioned “pillared reception halls for weary monarchs . . . [and] brick corridors for backstairs diplomacy,” offering instead “hygienic workrooms for the busy representatives of the people . . . [and] . . . open glazed rooms for public negotiations of honest men.”14 As Lewis Mumford argued in “The Death of the Monument,” an essay published a decade later, the monumental, even in its modernized form, only memorialized “the rich and the powerful, dead civilizations and dead cultures. . . . The very notion of a modern monument is a contradiction in terms: if it is a monument it cannot be modern and if it is modern it cannot be a monument.”15 And new pressure came to bear with the rise of Fascism, National Socialism,

and changes in Russian architectural policy in the 1930s. Statist monumentality now poisoned the historicists’ well elsewhere in Europe. Peter Meyer, editor of the Swiss magazine Das Werk and a fierce critic of the statist monumentality in Italy and Germany, faced sharp criticism when he suggested that the use of classicism for monumental buildings was inevitable.16 There is no shortcut through this “shifty” topic. At any one time, it seems, all of monumentality’s historicizing options are open. Take the situation in France between 1933 and 1936. One can find public buildings that employ relatively conventional early twentieth-​century classicism (the annex to the Palais de Justice, Marseilles), moderne classicism (the annex to the mairie of the xiv arrondissement, Paris), Dutch-​influenced “modern” architecture (the hôtel de ville, Cachan), and factory-​influenced functionalism in a restrained classical guise (the hôtel de ville, Boulogne-​Billancourt). In Denmark, the town of Gentofte, a suburb of Copenhagen, hired the court architect Thorvald Jørgensen to build its neoclassical city hall (1934–36), whereas in Aarhus, on Jutland, a competition for a new city hall was won by the modernists Arne Jacobsen and Erik Møller (1937), who were then immediately asked to make the building “more monumental.” Each building has a story (and an architect) influenced by local taste and national mood. No conceptual frame seems sufficiently robust to hold all these singular moments together. Big cities might be the sites of modern experimentation in painting but not in architecture. A small town like Hilversum (population 57,000 in 1930) could produce a town hall (1924–31) of strikingly advanced architectural form, whereas a city of greater size and prominence, like Sheffield, with a population over half a million, produced a relatively in t roduc t ion

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conservative building (1924–39), and Lille, in northern France, with a similar population, produced an apparently backward-​looking hôtel de ville (1924–32) with advanced materials and a strikingly original interior. Contradictions abound. An enlightened patron capable of assembling a majority of councilors around a new design with advanced architectural ideas had a significant advantage, as Willem Dudok found in Hilversum (the home of Radio Netherlands) and Tony Garnier in Boulogne-​ Billancourt (where a socialist mayor sought to use the town hall as part of an urban laboratory). Still, a few enlightened voices might not make a majority; the ragged edges of municipal modernism cannot be neatened without painful procrustean methods.17 In tackling the problem of civic and governmental buildings in the 1930s, architects and governments in the democratic countries of western Europe faced difficult questions, and we, as historians, face difficult problems of interpretation. Understanding the questions and analyzing the solutions are the central issues addressed by this book—​the central issues, although not its central subject. The book focuses on the story of a single courthouse building in the city of Gothenburg on the west coast of Sweden. Designed and built between 1934 and 1938 by Gunnar Asplund (1885–1940), the most important Swedish architect of the twentieth century, this building is my point of entry into the fraught subject of public architecture. It may, at first, seem strange to nest a deep study of this sort within a broader analysis of European public architecture in the first four decades of the twentieth century, but the logic that dictated this plan will reveal itself. This is not a book about a single object seen against a single backdrop. Both object and cultural setting 4

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shift dramatically: Asplund’s design underwent numerous changes from conception to construction, and rarely has culture changed more rapidly or dramatically than during the years between the wars. The time was called an age of anxiety, of permanent crisis, of transformations, even (in the words of W. H. Auden) a “low dishonest decade.” Making public architecture in a period of instability tries the nerves and tests the spirit. Still, because each gesture is open to conflicting interpretation and each decision a sign, it is architecture thick with meaning. To attempt a public building during such a time, with one’s whole mind, as Asplund did in Gothenburg, is to design a work of architecture fully responsive to its many contexts. Gunnar Asplund and Gothenburg Gunnar Asplund’s courthouse extension is a modest building (fig. 1).18 It stands at the northwestern corner of Gustaf Adolfs torg (Gustaf Adolf square), the main representational space in the city, and it seems practically to sink into the background. More striking buildings elsewhere on the square—​the nineteenth-​century Exchange Building, the city hall, and the tall church tower of the German national Kristine Church, just to the west—​first draw one’s attention. It is even unassuming in comparison with its southerly neighbor, the much-​modified seventeenth-​century Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder (1615–1681). Yet, as I claim in this book, it is a building of major significance for a number of reasons. It was the most heavily meditated work in the career of Gunnar Asplund. Asplund first set pen to paper in a competition for the building in 1913, and a little more than two decades later, in October 1936, scaffolding was finally removed from the new façade. In the intervening years the architect produced many

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hundreds of drawings and a rich and varied documentary trail of proposals and counterproposals. Each new proposal documents an effort by Asplund to meet the issues of the day. Around 1930, he underwent an architectural conversion, dramatically changing styles, and the design process also reflects this transformation. The story of the building is thus a compelling personal story of architectural creation and of the invention and reinvention of public architecture over time. Furthermore, with the exposure of the façade, the press excoriated the

building. It may be the only significant public structure built in Sweden in the twentieth century not formally inaugurated with ceremonial fanfare. Parts of this narrative are relatively familiar: the lengthy gestation of a public building, the elusive search for modern expression, the protests of the public at its novelty. Yet on closer inspection, the narrative concerns more than a building and its reception. The story’s bite is provided by three interlinked issues. The first rests on the fact that the proposals and in t roduc t ion

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Figure 1 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 1934–36, view from the northeast. To the south (left) is the much-​altered Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin, completed in 1672. This view of Asplund’s extension shows it shortly after the removal of scaffolding and before the installation of sculptural reliefs by Erik Grate on the second floor. The square was still being used for parking. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-072.

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solution of the design cover almost the entire range of Asplund’s stylistic development. Thus the building and site offer the chance to see the range of ways in which an architect shifts stylistic paradigms over a single architectural problem. Second, what heightens the interest of this problem is that the civic building—​ a courthouse addition in this case—​is one of the most significant of the day. As cities grew and changed, as their ambitions expanded, so the nature of their public buildings changed. Few buildings touch society more deeply than courts of law: here values are enunciated, here the individual meets the state, and here the public desire for order is expressed. Thus Asplund’s problem was not just meeting his own stylistic criteria but, what was more complicated, finding a decorous language for a developing society. And this problem became only more acute with the arrival of radical new architecture in the 1930s—​both modernism and statist monumentality. The courthouse extension threatened to bring modernism into the heart of the city as little had before. Third, what renders the story of Asplund’s building particularly significant is its long historical reach. Although criticized at home in the immediate aftermath of its unveiling, Asplund’s building soon found followers and led the way toward the development of an entire generation of public buildings in the postwar period. His fellow Scandinavians Alvar Aalto (1898– 1976) and Arne Jacobsen (1902–1971) showed their interest, but even later postwar public buildings looked back to Asplund. Asplund’s building also became the touchstone representative of the compromise between modernism and tradition for the postmodern movement in the 1970s and 1980s.19 In short, consideration of the courthouse extension in Gothenburg opens out into a number of key issues in the twentieth 6

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century: the development of a new architectural language for public buildings in the 1930s, the role of state authority, relations between citizens and the law, the place of the new architecture in society. As eccentric as Sweden and Gothenburg may appear, the story of the city’s courthouse resonates easily with the stories of hundreds of other courthouses and town halls across Europe. And yet, despite the many ways public buildings have been analyzed, rarely has their primary function as representing the idea of a city, a state, or its laws been taken seriously.20 In the case of Asplund’s building, this has been one of my contributions. Reference has often been made to the Gothenburg Courthouse extension as representing Swedish Social Democracy, recalling the leading party in the newly elected governmental coalition of 1932 that had made law reform a significant part of its program. But what did that mean in actuality? Was the building at some level a programmatic response to Social Democratic proposals? The conventional answer, that the penetration of light through glass and the openness of the interior represented socialist modernity, seems entirely too superficial to explain so complex a space and so important a civic function. Confusing matters further, in Sweden the town hall often doubled as a courthouse (and vice versa), so that Asplund—​ indeed, any architect—​in searching for models might look indiscriminately from one type to another. Studies that limit themselves to one typology risk an academic refinement their architects would never have committed.21 Before his final presentation of the new extension, Asplund had decades to meditate on this problem, and his ultimate solution, though confected quickly over a few short months in 1934–35, is the fruit of that experience. On the

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inside, indeed, few buildings more effectively illustrate Paul Frankl’s description of purpose in architecture from his Principles of Architectural History (first edition, 1914). Making a “path for a definite sequence of events” involved not just inventing the motifs but giving them resonance in the legal climate of the times.22 Asplund’s courthouse extension did not offer the visitor a casual stroll or even a Corbusian promenade architecturale between novel abstract shapes. Rather, the building spoke to visitors of the fundamental political, legal, and architectural values of contemporary society (fig. 2). Though some scholars have described Asplund’s spatial choreography in formal terms alone, I believe that Asplund’s ambitions were greater. It was more than his own nervous disposition that kept him (and his office) so intensively engaged in the details of this building. Asplund cannot be successfully understood only as a formalist. The circle in which he moved had broad cultural interests: in music, dance, literature, film, philosophy, sociology, and psychology. Though he may not have studied these subjects consistently—​and he hardly expressed himself in print on any of them—​he was someone who drew inspiration from those around him, as his assistant and good friend Carl-​Axel Acking noted.23 Men close to Asplund, like Uno Åhrén, Gunnar Sundbärg, and Sven Ivar Lind, brought him into contact with the key thinkers and issues of the day. For me, at least, the most compelling part of this story has been to prise apart the content embedded within the choreography that Asplund constructed. Studying the Gothenburg Courthouse extension has offered an opportunity to penetrate the extraordinarily fertile mind of a major twentieth-​century architect in one of his key buildings. And the most captivating thing about Asplund is the multivalent nature of

his imagination, “a studied elusiveness and an exquisite ambiguity,” as the architectural historian Stuart Wrede has called it.24 For Asplund, form relationships are established in the context of functional purpose and broader cultural significance and carefully linked to their surroundings. In addition to seeing a major public building develop over time and seeing its connections to European architectural issues, the reader will meet one of architecture’s great synthetic minds, one of the rare architects capable of bringing complex ideas to form. In sum, in the writing of this book, I have been mindful of two contexts. The first is architectural: the decisions and methods employed by an architect over time. The second is syncretic, derived from the historian Carl Schorske’s study of cities, their structures and cultures.25 I was moved by his descriptions of Vienna at the turn of the century, impressed by the way he knit together politics, art, psychology, and architecture to build a picture of a society. Impressed, too, that while Vienna remained at the center of his attention, he did not set aside events in Paris, London, and Berlin. Importing this multidisciplinary approach to architectural history through a broad interpretation of a city’s cultural life has been proved fruitful by many others, notably Joseph Siry in his dense study of Chicago and the architecture of Louis Sullivan, and Eve Blau in her examination of Vienna in the early twentieth century.26 Their work has set a standard to which I aspire. Gothenburg is not Vienna, of course, and though it has much in common with Chicago, the building on which I have focused my energy is a mere fingernail compared to Sullivan’s great Auditorium Building. Still, I have sought my sources widely, hoping to knit them together around Asplund’s courthouse and the city of Gothenburg. In that in t roduc t ion

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Figure 2 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 1934–36, view of the interior hall, looking from east to west, with the clock suspended from the column supporting the stairs. The main stair from the first to the second floor is visible at the left. Most courtrooms are at the second-​ floor level. On the third floor are offices, and the cafeteria is located on the fourth floor. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-079.

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respect, this book is not primarily an appreciation of the virtues of Asplund’s designs from an artistic point of view. There are superbly detailed accounts of Asplund’s attentive eye at the courthouse (with many color plates) that do just that. Rather, my narrative of architectural and urban change is pulled by political and cultural factors. Therefore, it is with the city of Gothenburg that we must begin and into which we must set the architect Gunnar Asplund.

Gothenburg Gothenburg was (and remains) Sweden’s second city; the commercial city rather than the royal city (Stockholm); an Atlantic city as opposed to a Baltic one; a city of self-​made men, not a city of civil servants and courtiers. In 1930 Gothenburg had a population of around 243,000. It had a lively port life, long boulevards, gracious canals, exquisite public gardens, and ambitions that seemed to exceed

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Figure 3 Map of the city of Gothenburg, 1921. Prepared by the city’s second engineer, Arvid Södergren, to celebrate the tercentenary of the city’s royal foundation, the map shows the center ringed with the remnants of its defensive curtain. At the center of the plan is Gustaf Adolf square. Leading from Kungsportsplatsen, on the south side of the old city, is Kungsportsavenyn, or Avenyn, the long street that leads to Götaplatsen and the art museum. The other buildings around Götaplatsen, the city theater and concert hall, have yet to be added. From Historiskt kartverk över Göteborg upprättat för Jubileumsutställningen i Göteborg 1923 (Gothenburg: Wald. Zachrisson, 1923). Regionoch stadsarkivet, Gothenburg.

its size (fig. 3). Though it looked more like Rotterdam, there were and still are echoes of a substantial British presence; many British residents formed a critical part of the Gothenburg ruling elite, and their presence helped prompt one of the city’s nicknames, Lilla London (Little London). Families with roots in Great Britain and Anglo-​Saxon names, such as Carnegie, Dickson, Chalmers, Hall, Campbell, Keillor, Gibson, and Barclay, had developed the industrial might at the center of Gothenburg’s power. Their residential area of Södra Hamngatan was even known as the “Boulevard des Anglais.” This anglicized elite structured their society in ways that roughly corresponded to the models they knew from their homeland. Gentleman’s clubs,

as in England, created the social environment for business. In contrast with those invested in the court and government of Stockholm, the Gothenburg elite developed a strong sense of self-​reliance, of the power of their own charity, and a clear hierarchy of social values based on what one did with one’s wealth. Although not unique to Gothenburg, the family-​supported donationsfond, the charitable foundation, played a critical role in the development of the city, building hospitals, libraries, and educational and cultural institutions.27 It was a familiar British (and, later, American) practice in this wild Swedish environment. Gothenburg was a city of business, of neighborhoods and families, a middle-​class city in t roduc t ion

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Figure 4 Gunnar Asplund, Karl Johan School, Gothenburg, 1915–24, main façade, from Amiralitetsgatan. This was Asplund’s only other built work in Gothenburg.

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of earnest businessmen. The clarity of a line from the historian Göran Therborn rings with brusque simplicity: “The birth date and birthplace of the modern Swedish bourgeois class, the class that changed Sweden from a feudal agricultural society to an industrial capitalist society, can actually be fixed with absolute precision. Place: Gothenburg; time: 1802–1816.”28 Sixty years later the “child” had grown up, so that when the hero of August Strindberg’s novel Tjänstekvinnans son (The son of a servant) visited Gothenburg in 1872, he was amazed at its industrial energy and its international connections. Stockholm, he realized, “was no longer the central point in the Nordic world; rather, Gothenburg was set to become it.”29 Gothenburg exceeded Stockholm in its exports already in 1850 and in imports in 1911, and its industrial prowess was soon known worldwide.30 Tens of thousands of Swedish emigrants had their last stop in Gothenburg (including my own relatives), and many passing through probably wondered whether it was necessary to make the long and dangerous crossing to America. Here at home was a city where an ambitious man or woman might find a job. Ambition and achievement marked the urban fabric: in the big-​boned buildings and long straight streets; in the merchants’ art collections that soon stocked the monumental art museum; in Götaplatsen, the great cultural forum on the south side of the city, built in the 1920s and 1930s.31 Into this world came Erik Gunnar Asplund. Though born and trained in Stockholm, Asplund was not unfamiliar with the great western port. As a city, it had helped launch his career. Victory in the competition for the extension to the courthouse in Gothenburg (1913) had provided his first significant commission. Soon thereafter (1915) he had received a second prize, in the competition for the Karl Johan

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School, in the west end of the city; on its completion the building was acclaimed in a special musical ceremony in November 1925 (fig. 4).32 He had also received the commission (1916) for the redesign of Gustaf Adolf square, and with his entry for the design of Götaplatsen (1917) he had developed a name and a reputation. His entry, though overlooked by the judges, was the subject of a significant article by the architect Ragnar Östberg, his well-​established senior colleague.33 It appeared in the architectural supplement to Teknisk tidskrift, Sweden’s one professional magazine for architecture, and in the same year Asplund himself became editor of the supplement. He wrote admiringly of Gothenburg and of the ability of Gothenburg to accommodate private architectural firms in municipal projects. Stockholm, he thought, was hidebound in its official bureaucracy, unable to respond with the necessary speed or intelligence. “Stockholm is apparently further away from the Continent than Gothenburg,” he wrote in 1918. “Not in artistic capacity,” he continued, but in its ability to respond to situations in a Continental manner.34 Asplund responded to the city’s entrepreneurial drive; the city was, at least briefly, his. Yet there was a traditional rivalry between Stockholm and Gothenburg—​ the city of courtiers and culture and the city of merchants and money. Asplund was unusual among Stockholm architects in finding favor in Gothenburg, at least initially, but his courthouse extension was something of an orphan, sponsored by the state in a city built by families and their business empires. Ultimately, the controversy around Asplund’s courthouse extension as it developed in 1936 represents the bumpy meeting of these two worlds. A book that seeks to penetrate a single topic in depth yet still connect it to a wider problematic inevitably exists in tension, in this

instance moving from the microscopic examination of specific details of one courthouse to the broader issues of public architecture in Europe. Yet the tension is a fruitful one. No one could undertake a survey of the public architecture in interwar Europe in sufficient depth to make it meaningful. Examining a single place over time effectively provides a scale by which to judge developments elsewhere. This study, thus, starts with place—​Sweden and the city of Gothenburg—​and with the history of the Swedish courthouse. Chapter 2 examines the many projects for the courthouse Asplund undertook after winning the competition in 1913 and connects these to his Swedish and European sources. Chapter 3 takes up the building as constructed. What does the building mean as a court of law? What image of the law does it present? Comparison to other European public buildings constructed before Asplund’s Gothenburg building shows the originality of Asplund’s effort to employ a kind of imaginative poetry to reach something inside every visitor. Chapter 4 lays out the reaction of the people of Gothenburg to the new building and explains why the public and professional criticism of the building was so serious for Asplund. The final two chapters use experiences in Gothenburg to crack open broader issues of public architecture in Europe. Chapter 5, focusing on Sweden and Gothenburg, takes up the question of how modern architecture and other modern cultural forms entered the public sphere. Chapter 6 surveys other Swedish and European public buildings built at the same time as the courthouse extension and examines the conditions that made them troublesome presences in the European city. The book concludes with an examination of the long-​term influence of Asplund’s courthouse extension. in t roduc t ion

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Sweden: Gothenburg and Its Courthouse

Chap ter 1

w

S

weden is a spacious land with long tracts of pine forest, vast open fields, and extensive mountain ranges (fig. 5). Traditionally, agriculture and fishing were the means of livelihood for a largely rural population. Towns and villages were few and widely dispersed; Stockholm, the nation’s east-​coast capital city, had 2,500 residents in 1520 and only reached 100,000 shortly after 1850. Before the construction of a national transportation network, boat was the most efficient means of travel around a rocky coastline etched by long watery fingers and across large inland seas and lakes. In the winter those inland waterways froze, further facilitating communications. In 1653, when Oliver Cromwell’s emissary, Bulstrode Whitelocke, came to Sweden to discuss common interests with Queen Kristina, he arrived in the wrong season and had to negotiate the difficult roads from Gothenburg to the capital. He faced poor accommodations and an uncomprehending population that knew little of the world beyond the boundaries of their own lands. Sweden developed a political order reflecting its geography. The population was divided into four estates, the nobility, the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants, each with its own representative parliament. During the Middle Ages the aristocracy wrote their privileges into a land law that allowed them to elect the

monarch and receive the fines they imposed on their own holdings. Without a significant urban merchant class, the nobles were extraordinarily powerful, often ruling the peasantry with an authoritarian hand. Landholdings were large but geographically scattered to protect against crop failure in a poor season, and this too atomized the population, creating tiny rural villages and agricultural communities separated from their lords by many days’ travel. Though Sweden had no feudal tradition, the lords’ agents exerted constant and sometimes capricious oversight. The aristocracy was the great defender of the rule of law, both to protect its own interests, vested in the countryside, and to counterbalance the power of the monarchy.1 The establishment of the Svea hovrätt (the supreme appellate court of Sweden) in 1614 created a place where the aristocracy could sit in judgment on itself without interference from the monarchy. Legally minded aristocrats and scholars prepared the first great collection of national laws, published in 1734.2 As the defenders of the principle of law, and in the absence of an urban commercial middle class, the aristocracy forged close ties with the peasantry in ways not found in other European countries. In the nineteenth century, Sweden developed a myth of the self-​ reliant, liberty-​loving peasant. Erik Gustaf

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buildings.4 Råd is the Swedish word for “advice” or “counsel”; thus rådhus refers to a place where advice or counsel is given, and a conventional English translation might be “town hall” or “council hall.” The rådhus was also the home of the rådhusrätt, the municipal or magistrates’ court, where justice was dispensed, and in larger towns, with a separate city hall, or stadshus, the rådhus would preferably be translated simply as “courthouse.” In towns and villages the rådhus, or courthouse, was often the only building to represent the state, to offer the people formal access to their rulers, its presence a mark of distinction and a source of civic pride. When the citizens of Landskrona inaugurated their new courthouse in 1885, their local poet, Nils Peter Nilsson, commemorated the event in verse:

Figure 5 Map of Sweden showing the sites of major interwar town halls and courthouse buildings. GingkoMaps project.

Geijer’s “Odalbonden” (The farmer of Odal, 1811), a poem in which a “peasant” proclaims his love of country, became one of many aristocratic formulations of the virtues of the rural population. The traditions of the peasantry, real or imagined, formed the basis for Swedish democracy in the twentieth century and had a powerful influence on the development of the modern craft tradition.3 Swedes developed a distinctive relation to their aristocratic state that was visibly expressed in architecture through rådhus

The goal that we have long sought to win, that we have dreamed of year by year, has now been our fortune to achieve today. Landskrona’s new courthouse is finished.5 The courthouse, either on its own in a larger town or included alongside other municipal offices in city hall, stood at the symbolic intersection of citizen and state, defining what Rousseau called “the conditions of civil association.”6 Every town wanted a courthouse, and in towns built of wood, the courthouse was often the only structure built of stone. Given the importance of the aristocracy in the administration of justice, a private house or family palace might serve as the courthouse. The palace of the nobleman Gustav Bonde (1662–67) was the site of the Stockholm Courthouse for many years.7 Though religious courts changed into secular courts as church authorities lost the right to administer punishments to the general

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public, a church sometimes retained its role as the site of secular court functions. At Vadstena, for example, the local church administrative offices were part of the courthouse, and the church bell tower, attached to the courthouse, formed the dominant and recognizable architectural symbol for the complex.8 Perhaps the connection was not unexpected in a country with a state religion, where, in the sixteenth century, penalties for crimes mentioned in the Bible were more severe than those for crimes without biblical precedent.9 Well into the twentieth century, indeed, the state’s new laws were read out loud from the pulpit to parishioners. As if reflecting the natural link of state and church, the architect John Åkerlund (1884–1961) built the church and courthouse at Borlänge (1936–39) in a single linked structure with the functions distinguished externally only by different tower forms.10 Equally, it was common in Sweden to find courthouse buildings incorporating functions beyond the obviously legal and administrative. Hotels, restaurants, and public saloons were common, for smaller towns might well need to provide public accommodation for visiting judges, and control of alcohol made the courthouse (often connected to a constabulary) a suitable location. In nineteenth-​century Stockholm, the courthouse on Stortorget (the main square in the old town) had a stadskällare (basement tavern), as did the courthouse buildings in Västerås and Uddevalla.11 In the 1936 novel Paul Hoffman, läroverksadjunkt (Paul Hoffman, adjunct teacher), the author, Hugo Swensson (1879–1957), places his young hero, Paul Hoffman, in the fictional town of Strandköping and has him walk out into the main square at night to find his dinner at a restaurant called Rådis, a nickname, as the author explains, for Rådhusrestaurangen (the Courthouse restaurant).12 14

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No Swedish reader would have been surprised by location or name. There was, however, no settled architectural style for courthouses or town halls. Early courthouse structures were often in the local vernacular, but through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was common to use the courthouse building to display the basic elements of classical architecture, the aristocracy naturally preferring a high style derived from classical sources, if possible. Classical forms could even be adapted to vernacular wooden constructions for smaller towns (such as Sigtuna, 1744) or used knowingly by architects with experience in central Europe or with one or another of the many pattern books to hand, as did Erik Dahlbergh in his Dutch-​inspired giant-​order courthouse in Jönköping (1692–99) (fig. 6). With passage of the communal reform act in 1862, which created municipal governments, and the parliamentary reform act of 1866, which took power from the old estate system, courthouse architecture opened to new influences as local councilors took charge of the building programs. As architectural impulses reached Sweden in the nineteenth century, they gave rise to new stylistic varieties of courthouse that for reasons of economy often incorporated the functions of a town hall. For the courthouse in Malmö (1864–69), the architect Helgo Zettervall (1831–1907) used a complex mixture of Dutch-​influenced Beaux-​ Arts. At Örebro, the architect Fridolf Wijnbladh (1826–1872) used English neo-​Gothic models in building a courthouse (1854–63) that also served as a city hall. Later still the new National Romantic style fused Swedish architecture with the imported styles from abroad, and this proved to be immensely popular for public architecture at the turn of the twentieth century.13

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Figure 6 Erik Dahlbergh, old courthouse, Jönköping, 1692–99, façade. Dahlbergh traveled to Italy in 1661 and returned with firsthand knowledge of classical architecture and modern military practices. Knut Björlingson.

The first examples of this nationalistic revival style are found in the private houses of intellectuals like Carl Curman (1833–1913) in Lysekil (1880) and of the painter Anders Zorn (1860–1920) in Mora (1887–97). Curman was a professor of anatomy at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts. In his house, traditional building materials are modernized in the spirit of vernacular architecture, with long curving profiles and an asymmetry that seems functional rather than decorative. Both Curman and Zorn built “great halls” in their houses to recall those built by the Vikings, whose independence and hardy character, like the peasants’, were the subject of myth.14 They hung rugs and tapestries on the walls, and Zorn and his wife, Emma, to show their solidarity with traditional virtues, dressed up in peasant clothes when visitors came to call. These houses were sites of national memory. The style soon spread through the work of

artists like Carl Larsson (1853–1919) and social reformers like Ellen Key (1849–1926), through organizations for social improvement, and through the new nationalistic youth movements of the day, with their cult of the healthy body and outdoor life.15 Here then was a new early twentieth-​century national avant-​garde, corresponding roughly to the British Arts and Crafts movement, that expressed the virtues of a self-​reliant peasantry and provided an innovative architectural style grounded in Swedish political tradition and myth. In subsequent years, as Sweden expanded suffrage and sought a new political compromise to accommodate all its citizens, the National Romantic became the style of choice for many governmental buildings. The adaptation of domestic architecture to public buildings involved significant changes in scale, materials, and iconography. From S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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Figure 7 Martin Nyrop, Copenhagen Town Hall, 1892–1905. Much admired in Sweden and by Torben Grut especially, the town hall inspired a generation of Swedish architects. John Keren, Copenhagen.

his position as editor of the recently founded professional magazine Arkitektur och dekorativ konst, initially issued as a supplement to Teknisk tidskrift, a magazine of interest to engineers, the architect Torben Grut (1875–1945) agitated for brick, not only writing about it himself but publishing one of the key texts by the architect Ivar Tengbom (1878–1968) on its use elsewhere.16 Grut had lived in Denmark, and buildings like Martin Nyrop’s town hall in Copenhagen (1892–1905) and architects like Hans Jørgen Holm (1835–1916), with whom he had worked, suggested how brick might be used in a modern way that still reflected local tradition (fig. 7). In Sweden, Grut particularly admired the architects Jean de la Vallée (1620–1696) and Nicodemus Tessin the Elder (1615–1681), the architect of the original courthouse in Gothenburg, both of whom had made extensive use of brick in their architecture: 16

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“Swedish men with southern blood,” he called them admiringly.17 More complex, however, was the problem of a new iconography for the public realm. Monumental national architecture provided the first line of reference: the great castles of the Vasa dynasty from the sixteenth century—​Gripsholm (1537–45, with later additions), Vadstena (1555–99, fig. 8), and Kalmar (1547–1602)—​and the castles and palaces of the noble families of Sweden’s so-​called Age of Greatness in the seventeenth century—​the castles at Läckö (begun 1615, with additions from 1654) and Skokloster (1654–76), the palaces of the Wrangel (1652–70) and the Bonde families in Stockholm. Significant religious architecture from the seventeenth century, such as Kristianstad’s much-​admired Trefaldighetskyrkan (Holy Trinity Church), completed 1658, provided a further selection of motifs.

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Figure 8 Pierre de la Roche, Vadstena Castle, 1555–99. The great Vasa castles represented the native source of monumentality for Swedish architects. Bengt Wennlund, Upplandsmuseet, Uppsala, 1918–23.

New public buildings, like the Nordic Museum in Stockholm (1889–1907), by the architect Isak Gustaf Clason (1856–1930), assembled an encyclopedia of appropriately nationalistic motifs and a palette of stones from all over Sweden to demonstrate how the new style might be used at scale.18 Yet though the Nordic Museum was eclectically nationalist in its motifs and its materials, there was nothing specifically vernacular about its forms, nothing to recall directly the traditions of peasant design that domestic architecture had developed. How then to combine references to the high-​style national tradition with the traditions that recalled the virtuous peasantry? The answer was supplied by a younger generation of architects in a series of strikingly original public

buildings, courthouses, and city halls—​just the kind to which many of the new municipal governments now aspired.19 Recognizing especially the need for new courthouses and town halls, Grut ran an inspirational series of thumbnail photographs of historic Swedish courthouse structures over a number of issues of his magazine (1903–5).20 Competitions were under way throughout Sweden.21 Completed in the first and second decades of the twentieth century, these courthouse buildings recalled the Swedish vernacular traditions through naturalized carving, irregular massing, contrasting over-​scaled elements, and simplified profiles. Through specific motifs they also recalled the royal traditions of Swedish architecture. Courthouse S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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buildings in towns such as Östersund (Frans Wallberg, 1907–12), Borås (Ivar Tengbom and Ernst Torulf, 1907–10), and Norrköping (Isak Gustaf Clason, 1907–10) made use of exposed brick in relatively broad unadorned planes. Each drew on significant nationalist prototypes from Swedish architectural history, often making purposeful use of irregularity or asymmetry (fig. 9).22 The result was an effect that suggested by analogy pragmatic and rugged peasant honesty wed to the aristocratic traditions of Sweden.23 These new courthouse structures—​and related city halls—​often formed the heart of new or renewed urban centers, the impact of the new architecture frequently heightened by its placement at the head of the central town square. Two buildings in Stockholm—​the city hall designed by Ragnar Östberg, originally intended to combine judicial and council functions (1903–23), and the courthouse (1911–15) by Carl Westman (1866–1936), which took over its judicial functions—​were the most prominent examples this new style. Of the two, Westman’s building, completed when questions about the representation of Swedish traditions in public architecture were still in the air, most fired the contemporary imagination.24 Westman’s courthouse in Stockholm was (and is still) shockingly bare and startlingly monumental (fig. 10). Constructed of brick with a light plaster render called, in Swedish, slamning, the surface has a crude, raw, stripped quality—​almost as if it were unfinished or under restoration, a product of historic time rather than the hand of an architect. The “cubistic” tower provides the dominant focus for the façade, recalling vernacular buildings such as the Seglora church tower (1729), now located at Skansen, the outdoor architectural museum in Stockholm, and significant works of royal

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patronage, such as the central tower of the Vasa castle at Vadstena.25 In the eyes of his contemporaries, Westman’s courthouse expressed a new vision for the age. In 1916 the architect Lars Israel Wahlman (1870–1952) wrote two lengthy articles explaining how Westman had synthesized motifs, materials, and scale to express the values of the times. “Who has given stronger proof that he cannot function in any other way than the Swedish way? Who among us architects mirrors in his work the image of Sweden with more spirit? He is not an archaeologist; he is an innovator with Swedish temperament, aware and unselfconscious.”26 Echoing the opinions of Carl August Ehrensvärd (1745–1800) and Clason, both of whom had reservations about the use of the column in Scandinavian architecture, Wahlman praised Westman’s solution to the problem of the use of classical orders. “The column and pilaster have always appeared as striving, usually like a lonely aristocratic couple with higher, i.e., foreign education. . . . [T]hat kind of culture could never take us far; for us that will be a form of theater or other ‘show,’ a display window or possibly a facing for bank buildings.”27 The imaginative complexity of Westman’s courthouse and its rich sculptural decoration by the sculptor Aron Sandberg (1873–1859) extended the social and historical range of public imagery in Sweden’s capital city. In contrast to classical and Gothic architecture, which were aristocratic, historical, and foreign, National Romantic architecture managed to be aristocratic and historical, but also popular, and therefore Swedish. When choosing a building to symbolize the new architecture, the art historian Gregor Paulsson used Westman’s courthouse as the frontispiece to his book (1916) advocating the new Werkbund-​influenced architecture for

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Figure 9 Isak Gustaf Clason, Norrköping Courthouse, 1907–10. Clason’s building superseded a modest house nearby known as rådstugan (the court cabin). Figure 10 Carl Westman, Stockholm Courthouse, 1911–15. The façade and north flank, seen from Scheelegatan, reveal the clear geometry of the building. Svenska litografiska, Stockholm.

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Sweden. Paulsson saw the courthouse as “proof of the modern tendency to bring objectivity to form.”28 In the return to traditional materials, the reinvigoration of traditional skills, and the folklike honesty of its surfaces, Paulsson argued, was the essence of a new monumentality that would express the vitality of twentieth-​ century architecture and society. This broad-​brush portrait of function, style, and materials provides the background for the developments in public architecture that take place in Gothenburg. But in the account so far, the architectural character of the courthouse shifts relatively effortlessly as style succeeds style. In many locations throughout Europe this may actually have been the case. The residents in newly industrialized cities were thoroughly grateful to have grand new stone (or brick) civic architecture. Indeed, for much of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this was the case in Gothenburg. Gothenburg and the Courthouse On the west side of Sweden, on the coast opposite that of the capital city, Stockholm, is Gothenburg, the country’s second city. Facing the North Sea and the Atlantic, it occupies the east bank of the river Göta barely five miles from its mouth at the Kattegat, the short stretch of water between northern Denmark and Sweden. The logic of its location does not depend on its hinterland; the land is rocky here, relatively infertile to the north toward Norway, along the Bohus coastline, and though it opens out somewhat to the south, long stretches are good for little but timber and mining. The Swedish king Gustav Adolf II (1584–1632) founded Gothenburg in 1621 as a frontier town, a bastion against the Danish king Christian IV (r. 1588–1648), whose territorial claims stretched north to within just 20

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a few kilometers of the settlement. Additionally, the Danes controlled the Öresund straits, taxing all traffic in and out of the Baltic, and Gustav Adolf wanted Gothenburg as a western trading outlet; an independent military and foreign policy depended on a secure west-​coast Swedish port that could escape Danish control. The site Gustav Adolf and his advisers finally chose for Gothenburg was the third for a city in the region. Nya Lödöse, further upstream and somewhat inland, had been founded in the thirteenth century and was, in the sixteenth century, an important trading post—​the fourth in Sweden in order of importance for trade—​ but it was neither defensible nor close enough to the mouth of the Göta for heavier ships.29 Later, construction began on a new town—​lots had even been leased—​on the western side of the Göta, closer to the sea than the present-​day city, and a fort had been built there. In the end, Gothenburg was located on the eastern side of the Göta and laid out by Dutch engineers using a grid plan with canals breaking the street pattern and a bastioned defensive wall guarding the landside. Sections of its southern flanks are still visible today, as are two of the gun towers beyond the defensive curtain, Skansen Kronan and Westgötha Leijon, designed by Erik Dahlbergh in the seventeenth century. At the heart of the city the engineers set out Stora torget, “the big square” (fig. 11). Every Swedish town of any pretension has a “big square,” a place for the market and the obligatory architectural pieces of government, but the one in Gothenburg is unusually large, more like a parade ground or military exercise yard than a conventional city square: long, rectangular, and regal in scale. No single site in Gothenburg more effectively embodies the city’s history of government and trade or more thoroughly embodies the city’s self-​image.

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Figure 11 John Leonard Björkfeldt, Stora torget, later Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, ca. 1840. The view, from the east, shows the square before the addition of the statue to Gustav Adolf II. In the foreground is Östra Hamnkanalen, later decked over; to the left (south) is Stora Hamnkanalen. The Governor’s House is still standing next to the courthouse, and the Exchange Building is yet to be built. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GM: 7816.

In the beginning, Stora torget formed the ragged heart of a mercantile town of no more than a thousand residents. When Bulstrode Whitelocke visited the city in November 1653, he reported that it was “fully built for the most part of it,” and he noted its many “fayre houses of brick, which yet seem not very substantial.” What struck him most forcibly about Gothenburg, however, was its energy: “full of trade and people, though it be not very large.”30 Although it was founded as a military outpost, eighteenth-​century trade—​particularly the foundation of the East India Company (1713), which supported Swedish trading interests overseas—​drove the city’s development. Merchants helped local fishermen profit from the great herring harvests in the second half of the

eighteenth century by constructing canning factories up and down the Bohus coast. Connections with the rest of Sweden also proved profitable. Locks built inland at Trollhättan starting in 1800 connected the city to the Göta Canal and on to the Baltic at Mem. This east-​ west link between the inland industries and the port of Gothenburg brought oats from the wide fields of central Sweden, trees for ships’ masts, and pig iron from the productive forges in central Sweden to be shipped to Great Britain, Holland, and the Americas. Gothenburg also developed its own industrial capacities based on trade and using engineering skills often developed with the help of inventors and entrepreneurs from the British Isles: textiles (Keillor, Gibson, Carnegie), shipbuilding (Göteborgs S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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Figure 12 Gothenburg Courthouse, reconstruction drawing. The façade facing Stora Hamnkanalen (on left) was notably Dutch in feeling. The significant presence of the Kristine Church behind the courthouse can also be seen. From C. R. A. Fredberg, Det gamla Göteborg: Lokalhistoriska skildringar, personalia och kulturdrag (Gothenburg, 1921), 2:468. Figure 13  (opposite) Gothenburg Courthouse, reconstruction views showing its incremental expansion over the centuries. A = eighteenth century; B = additions 1814–17; C = northern arm, 1835; D = western arm, 1869; E = addition to the Governor’s House with the courthouse extension by Asplund, 1934–36. Courtesy of Ewa Malinowski and Solveig Schulz, from Malinowski and Schulz, Ny puts på gammal fasad: Fasadrenovering av Göteborgs rådhus (Stockholm: Statens råd för byggnadsforskning, 1982), 14.

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Mekaniska Verkstad), ball bearings (originally AB Svenska Kullagerfabriken, later SKF), and food products such as sugar (Carnegie). By 1850 the city had surpassed Stockholm for the size of its exports and was the largest Swedish port in total imports and exports.31 All this had a powerful effect on Gothenburg and the “big square.” Stora torget, in addition to being the site of government, served as the market square. It was also where the city carried out hangings and executions, and a permanent guardhouse stood out in the square midway along the north side; here foreign ambassadors and dignitaries, like Whitelocke, met the local governors. Bounded by canals to the south (Stora Hamnkanalen) and east (Östra Hamnkanalen), the western and northern sides had the major governmental buildings and provided residences for high officials and wealthy early inhabitants. Fires in 1669 and in 1758 transformed the square, eliminating many of the original buildings. By 1790, when the population had grown to around ten thousand, five two-​story stone buildings fronted the square, the grandest of which was Nicodemus Tessin the Elder’s Courthouse, completed in 1672, combining the functions of courthouse, administrative center, and businessmen’s meeting place.32

The courthouse stood at the critical southwest corner of the square, marking the entry point to the square from the port via Stora Hamnkanalen (fig. 12). It had two façades. One, with a segmental arch over giant-​order pilasters, faced south, toward the canal. From this position it completed the line of buildings starting in the west with East India House (1747–62, Bengt Wilhelm Carlberg and Carl Hårleman) and continuing with the Sahlgren Building (1753, Bengt Wilhelm Carlberg) and the church of the German community, dedicated to Queen Kristina, the Kristine Church (1648), with its eight-​sided funerary chapel (1681, possibly Erik Dahlbergh), which backed onto the courthouse. All three buildings were built of yellow Dutch brick. The second courthouse façade, facing Stora torget, only marginally more important, had a triangular pediment over giant-​order pilasters. The two wings of the building thus formed an L. Eric Cederbourg, who in the early eighteenth century provided the first description of the building, called it a “powerful, large, and well-​scaled building of yellow Dutch brick.”33 It is a statement that says much about the modest structures in the vicinity. Over time the city architects, Carl Wilhelm Carlberg (1746–1818) and his assistant Jonas Hagberg (1788–1839), enlarged the building, adding an attic level (1814–17) and a northern wing to form a U-​shaped building (1835), and later still, H. J. Strömberg (1821–1872) added a western wing (1869) to form a square block with an open interior courtyard (fig. 13).34 These changes enlarged the building considerably and transformed its orientation, all but completely resheathing the original structure; the façade facing Gustaf Adolf square became the primary façade, with its entry distinguished by a flight of stone stairs and low-​relief figures (in iron) of Justice and Prudence in the pediment.

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The entrance facing the canal was reduced to a simple single-​story arch in a façade with giant-​order Doric pilasters.35 Like courthouse buildings elsewhere in Sweden, Gothenburg’s courthouse served diverse purposes. Though its judicial and representative functions were of primary importance, during the eighteenth century the merchants who lived and worked close at hand also used it for balls, theatrical performances, and musical entertainment: city musicians held regular concerts in its restaurant on Wednesdays and Saturdays at midday. An “assemblée” at the courthouse in 1776 allowed merchants’ wives to dress up in their finest clothes, with one woman displaying the latest Stockholm-​influenced architectural coiffure, the Serpent and Eve in Paradise woven into her hair.36 Next door, immediately to the north of the courthouse and also on the square, was Kommendantshuset (the Governor’s House), the building later replaced by Asplund, a more modest structure originally built as an office and residence for the chief magistrate.37 Cederbourg described the Governor’s House favorably as “a large decent house of brick that also offers a fine appearance.”38 Over time court functionaries (police, court officials, secretaries) had moved in as the governor and chief magistrates moved out. There had even been a small prison or holding facility in the basement. Enlarged in pieces, like the courthouse, first under the direction of the city architect Bengt Wilhelm Carlberg (1696–1778) after a fire in 1746 and then in the early nineteenth century, it remained lower than the courthouse, smaller in depth and width, and somewhat less decorated. Though the city sought to patch up the old structure, its status was never comparable to that of the courthouse or, for that matter, any of the other buildings around S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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Figure 14 Aerial view of Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, looking west after the erection of the statue to Gustav Adolf (1854) and the construction of the Exchange Building (1859).

the square, a square that increasingly in the nineteenth century served ceremonial and representational purposes. Change in status followed developments on the northern side of square, where private houses initially mixed with public buildings; eventually all of them became governmental buildings (figs. 14 and 15). At the western corner was the Wenngren Building (1749, rebuilt 1759), originally designed by B. W. Carlberg in two stories with a taller roof. Renovations in 1813 entailed the addition of a third story, with the result that the original decorations, which had appeared modest on the old building, appeared inadequate, almost derisory, on the new. From the original owner, Sven O. Wenngren (1710–1798), secretary of the East India Company, the building passed to institutional uses, as a post office, as the office of the National Bank (from 1824), and from the 1850s 24

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as the state mortgage society, which provided its name, Hypoteksföreningens hus.39 Next to the Wenngren Building, to the east, was the city hall built by Jonas Hagberg (1821–24) with a relatively plain paneled orderless façade and a projecting porch; like the Wenngren Building, it was originally two stories tall. Farthest to the east, the latest and grandest addition to the square was the Exchange Building (1844– 49), by Pehr Johan Ekman (1816–1884). The Exchange Building had numerous functions: as a communal reception hall, as a chamber of commerce, and as the meeting place for the city council. When completed, the Exchange Building was the most highly decorated in the line along the north side of square. Finally, though not directly on Gustaf Adolf square, the tower of the Kristine Church, rebuilt in 1780 by Carl Fredrik Adelcrantz and set behind the courthouse, provided the only significant

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Figure 15 Plan of Gustaf Adolf square before the intervention of Gunnar Asplund. A = Tessin’s Courthouse; B = Governor’s House; C = school; D = Wenngren Building; E = city hall; F = Exchange Building; G = Kristine Church; H = East India House, currently the City Museum; I = Sahlgren Building. Drawing by Jack Self, London.

vertical architectural element visible from the square. From its heights lanterns by night and flags by day would warn the population of the direction of fires.40 Only the geometric order of the square itself held this motley group of buildings together. The care and cure of public space was not a high priority in early Gothenburg. Even in the 1820s a visitor lamented the absence of sidewalks: “as the streets are paved with rough pebbles, it is no place for a lounger,” he wrote.41 Merchants, unlike royalty or aristocracy, had comparatively few significant public rituals to enact; extravagant public entertaining was

sporadic; what mattered most were the rituals of port and factory, the drawing room, the counting house, and the gentleman’s club.42 Though trade brought activity to the port, an article in the Gothenburg newspaper Morgonbladet (1851) described a city of “open, broad, and beautiful squares, excellent gas lighting, charming canals, and streets—​empty.” And the same impression was conveyed to a French visitor forty years later. He admired the city, considering it as if he were writing a guidebook. “Gothenburg is worth the trouble of a visit; it is a large city, regular and monumental. Its buildings do not shine with originality of style, but S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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they all have a certain decorative value.” But the city was the wrong size for its population: “One only regrets that these great spaces are not animated by a larger population. Gothenburg is not deserted; there are more people than that; but it seems too extensive for the number of its inhabitants.”43 Cultural life was restrained, too. Carl Palmstedt (1785–1870)—the director of Chalmers slöjdskolan (the craft school, the origins of the Chalmers Technological University)—was invited to oversee the first meeting of the Konst- och slöjdföreningens (Society for Arts & Crafts) in Gothenburg (1842), and wrote to his friend Jöns Jacob Berzelius, the professor of chemistry in Stockholm, that the one critical goal of the society was “to drive artistic barbarism away from this stiff coast.”44 The proper organization of the society waited a little more than another decade; then, stirred by the Great Exhibition in London (1851), artists and art enthusiasts founded Göteborgs konstförening (Gothenburg’s Art Society, 1853). Music languished as well. When asked whether the residents of Gothenburg supported the music of Bach and Handel, the Czech composer Josef Czapek (1825–1915), who moved there in 1847, replied with a pun: “No, God protect us, here there is no interest in anything but Bacchus and Business” (handel in Swedish).45 From 1850 to 1900 the population of Gothenburg rose 400 percent, from 26,000 to 130,000, and the new wealth of the city rearranged the older patterns of urbanism around Stora torget, both physically and symbolically.46 What had been a somewhat haphazard collection of buildings and functions, its urbanism the product of decisions made building by building, began to be shaped by a new collective interest in the square. By 1835 the courthouse had its updated major façade 26

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looking toward Stora torget. In the 1840s the city council decided to move the market from Stora torget to Kungstorget, on the far side of the old city, where access for horse-​drawn carts and canal traffic would be easier. In the immediate vicinity of Stora torget, commercial banks displaced the businessmen’s palaces that had combined family residences and counting houses. Often Florentine in inspiration, the sober façades of the banks provided the dominant tone in the area (fig. 16). And along with banks came insurance companies, either building new structures in keeping with the dominant mercantile theme or remodeling the retail establishments that had once given Stora torget its life.47 Oarsmen and their boats, long part of Gothenburg’s urban scene, moved out.48 Elegant and reserved, the new palaces represented the secretive: “the grated window, the enormous street doors, and the exclusiveness of boardrooms and executive offices, whose somber magnificence the uninitiated could imagine through hearsay alone.”49 The erection of the monumental bronze statue of Gustav Adolf II by the sculptor Bengt Erland Fogelberg (1786–1854) at the center of Stora torget in November 1854 was the culmination of these changes (fig. 17). It celebrated simultaneously the Lutheran hero-​king, the nationalistic Great Power period of Sweden, and the founder of the city.50 The selection of Gustav Adolf for the central position in the city’s central square and major open space may seem all too obvious in retrospect, and perhaps for that reason it instantly provided Gothenburg with a new symbol, turning the site of government and commerce into a site of remembrance, commemoration, and uncritical nationalistic optimism. The crown prince, later Karl XV, traveled to the city for a three-​day visit. Celebrations included a great ball in the

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Figure 16 Swedbank, originally Rikets Sänders Bank, Södra Hamngatan, Gothenburg, architect Viktor Adler, 1886. This is typical of the Italianate buildings that housed banks and insurance companies in the area. Figure 17 Bengt Erland Fogelberg, statue of Gustav Adolf II, 1849 (original statue, copy erected 1854). In this view the statue is shown standing before Tessin’s Courthouse and the Governor’s House and seeming to point to the courthouse, as if it too were the king’s creation.

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Exchange Building. As “Wolmar” wrote in the newspaper Göteborgs handels- och sjöfartstidning (known hereafter as Handelstidningen) when the scaffolding around the statue was removed 21 November 1854:51 Oh! We behold today in bronze Gustav Adolf ’s lofty character, in Göta city’s lap. See memories of former times and of future’s hope awakened in the people’s heart and here given voice. To celebrate the event, Josef Czapek published a collection of dance music for piano, Minne af Gustafs-​festen i Götheborg, rearranging the music played at the ball held in the Exchange Building to celebrate the unveiling of the statue for a private domestic setting.52 R. Rubenson, a local confectioner, offered a “Gustav Adolf statue modeled in sugar after Professor Fogelberg’s drawing.”53 To reflect the importance of the moment, the city changed the name of the square to Gustaf Adolfs torg—​Gustaf Adolf square. It was the greatest artistic achievement hitherto for this energetic merchant city. In the words of the urban historian Gudrun Lönnroth, “Stora torget was no longer an obvious meeting place for the residents of Gothenburg. It had changed to Gustaf Adolf square, a representational space for the city and a monumental space where one assembled only on special festive occasions.”54 In the middle years of the nineteenth century there were many such occasions. For the victory of the British and the French over the Russians at Sevastopol in 1855, immediately after the erection of the statue, the square came to life. When Karl XV (1859–72) visited

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Gothenburg in 1862 to celebrate the anniversary of the union of Norway and Sweden, the city organized a great ball at the Exchange, where the king danced energetically, and on the following day a twenty-one-​gun salute on the square was so powerful that, as one observer later wrote, “had there been large glass shop windows in those days, they would not have withstood the wind pressure.”55 Two years later, on the fiftieth anniversary of the union, there was a forty-two-​gun salute from Gustaf Adolf square and a procession of city councilors from Gothenburg and Kristiania (the capital of Norway) followed by “the invited deputies, civil servants, officers, provincial governors, magistrates, postal officials, telegraph officers, religious ministers, school teachers, and others.”56 Great events called on the populace to assemble in the square. At the opening of Gothenburg’s great Jubilee Exhibition of 1923, we are told that fifteen thousand people massed to see King Gustaf V, Crown Prince Gustav Adolf, Prince Eugen, and the princesses Ingeborg, Märta, and Astrid. Wilhelm Stenhammar, the conductor of the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra, the orchestra founded by Josef Czapek, wrote a special cantata, “Minnet,” for the occasion, and the choir sang the de facto national song, “Du gamla, du fria” (Thou ancient, thou free), with its high-​patriotic recollection of the glorious past, when Sweden’s name was honored. The featured speaker, the merchant Axel Carlander, president of the city council and the person responsible for organizing the jubilee, and the king both laid wreaths at the statue of Gustav Adolf II.57 In short, with the installation of the statue, public occasions in the square offered the citizens of Gothenburg many chances to renew their loyalty to the traditions of the nation, and the city its

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Figure 18 Gustav Adolfsdagen celebrations, ca. 1900. Postcards such as this allowed purchasers to fill in the date they attended the celebrations. On this card the sender tells a friend that she was standing next to Mühlenbocks, a greengrocer’s store, visible to the right, on the far eastern side of the square. Axel Stiberg & Co., Gothenburg.

clearest chance to express its own sense of self-​ importance. All in all, the city felt good about itself. When Karl XV visited Gothenburg in 1862, he found everything on a scale unimagined in the capital: the food more luxurious, the interior decorations more lavish, the unctuous manners of the people inappropriate. He confided to his adjutant that he “was furious about all their luxury.” The king even complained about the illumination of the city and somewhat ungraciously “mumbled in answer to the enthusiastic hurrahs of the merchants: ‘Thanks so much, you devils!’ ”58 Gustaf Adolf square became the central site for the annual celebration of Gustav Adolfsdagen, a great day-​night urban festival (fig. 18). Celebrated throughout the country (and where Swedes gathered abroad) on 6 November, the day seems to have had its beginnings as

a student festive day. Combining elements of Guy Fawkes Night and the Fourth of July (along with late-​night shopping), Gustav Adolfsdagen celebrated the memory of Gustav Adolf II, who died at the Battle of Lützen, 6 November 1632. Known as the Golden King or the Lion of the North, he presided over the expansion of Swedish territory, briefly transforming a small regional kingdom into a great European power. The day provided an opportunity for Swedish society as a whole, raised on conventional patriotic accounts of the hero-​king (Sweden established compulsory elementary education in 1842), to demonstrate its loyalty to the traditions of the great ruler.59 Gothenburg, the city founded by Gustav Adolf, felt a responsibility to hold celebrations at a high level. Throughout the day, parades of school children, church groups, governmental officials,

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and workers filed through the square to the sound of brass bands and choirs.60 Leaders of the city used the occasion to deliver uplifting Gustav Adolfsdagen speeches to the masses; not infrequently such speeches could be published.61 In the evening, choirs sang “Vår Gud är oss en väldig borg” (“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”), the hymn that by tradition Gustav Adolf had heard before going into battle, as well as patriotic songs such as “Den snöiga nord” (The snowy north), and the celebration ended with a torchlight procession and collective singing of “Du gamla, du fria.”62 When the Swedish Tourist Board published its guide to Gothenburg (1931), the chapter on Gustaf Adolf square began with an evocation of 6 November. “On 6 November, all the city’s schoolchildren gather with their choirs in the angles of the square to hail the hero king. A tribune is set up in front of the statue, and from there the Göta Artillery Regiment blares out its military music. And when the first phase of the celebration is over, all the children rush to the city’s bakeries to overeat with pastries bearing Gustav Adolf ’s portrait in marzipan.”63 It was a day so thick with popular patriotic emotion that when the novelist August Bondeson needed to show the hopelessly conventional fantasies of his hero in his satirical novel Skollärare John Chronschoughs memoarer (Grammar-​school teacher John Chronschough’s memoirs; first edition, 1897), he placed him in Gustaf Adolf square on the sixth of November. In an ecstasy of patriotic fervor, torn between marching in the torchlight procession and singing in the choir, Chronschough mounts the Otterhällan ridge overlooking the square. There he composes a poetic declamation (of fourteen stanzas) dedicated to Gustav Adolf, the beauty of nationhood, and the special role of the city of Gothenburg.64 30

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Lights to the memory of the hero-​king Shine from the windows, shine on the squares; Flaming also in every mind In proud Gothenburg. Bondeson’s ironic narrative also hints at the reservations many felt about celebrating Gustav Adolf II. Catholic historians, of course, had long viewed the achievements of the Lion of the North with skepticism, and with the loss of Norway (1905), even Swedish historians began to reevaluate the Great Power period. For some, like Clas Theodor Odhner (1836–1904), Gustav Adolf was still the great hero-​king; liberal historians, such as Julius Mankell (1828– 97), saw good reason for doubt.65 In his drama Gustaf Adolf (1900), August Strindberg (1849– 1923) represents the king, controversially, as a religious universalist rather than a Lutheran particularist. In answer to an attack on Catholicism, Strindberg has Gustav Adolf say, “Wait a bit . . . if you think that Protestants are angels, you’re deceiving yourself. Go into my camp and look at the wretchedness; you’ll see that it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. And among Christian people you’ll meet hardly one who’s as fine a man as my friend, Marcus the Jew. . . . And, besides, people have received their nationality and their religion from God, so they ought to keep them.”66 Strindberg’s image of Gustav Adolf stirred strong conservative opposition. Still, for better or worse, consciously or not, as the historian Sten Engström recounted when assessing the great man in an article for Svensk tidskrift in 1932, Gustav Adolf provided the measuring stick for a Swedish leader.67 Any objections to the hero-​king, however passionately held, gained little traction in the face of state sponsorship and the popular nature of the observances.

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Figure 19 Elias Martin, view of central Gothenburg across Stora Hamnkanal to the west, ca. 1780. The projecting tower of the Kristine Church dominates the horizon. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GM: 18777.

The new status of the square as patriotic and aesthetic model is reflected in paintings, prints, photographs, and descriptions of the city. At the end of the eighteenth century the typical view of Gothenburg was along Stora Hamnkanalen from Lilla torget (Little Square) looking east at ground level, showing boats along the quai, or from Södra Hamngatan looking westward along Stora Hamnkanalen toward Stora torget. Canals and boats take pride of place (fig. 19). In 1859, five years after the unveiling of the statue of Gustav Adolf, one writer called the square “without doubt the most beautiful point in Gothenburg. On two sides of the square are the canals, and on the other sides goodly sized buildings offer a view that is no less beautiful. Since 1854 this

midpoint has been adorned with a statue of Gustav Adolf, a beautiful masterpiece by Fogelberg, our countryman.”68 Foreign guidebooks, such as that published in London by John Murray, brought visitors to the spot to appreciate “the great square to the rt. and the river in the background,” which “produce an effect of great architectural beauty.”69 The novelist and journalist Viktor Rydberg, who wrote one of the most important travel books about the city of Gothenburg, highlighted Gustaf Adolf square and its buildings. In one section he takes the visitor to see the courthouse, and from its balcony, the square. “Consider now our plate,” he writes, encouraging the reader to look to the neighboring illustration (fig. 20). The view shows an artist in the foreground sketching S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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artists’ society had been formed. Paintings and views show the square liberated from the fruitand-​vegetable sellers, spacious and open in the manner of a grand esplanade, offering an urban promenade with the statue of Gustav Adolf as moral tutor for the city’s new nationalistic rituals. At the southeast corner, though wrapped in a quilt of later renovations, the courthouse (“the temple of justice”) remained a precious and much-​prized relic of the city’s foundation.

the square and its newly installed statue and recently completed exchange building from the second floor of the courthouse, a brilliant reversal of the older representation of the square. The presence of the artist is an invitation to join him in contemplating the square’s aesthetic virtues and perhaps also a reminder that in just these years Gothenburg’s first

Figure 20 Lithograph after drawing by C. G. Berger, 1859, that epitomizes the new urban self-​consciousness of the city. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GhmPK:228.

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Dismantling the Governor’s House Although trade was the driving force behind the development of Gothenburg, the significant jumps in population were in fact also the product of the communal reforms in 1862, which redrew the city’s administrative boundaries. Not only were there more people and more rules to administer (though there were both), there was also more land to administer, and all this had an effect on municipal staff and office space around Gustaf Adolf square. In 1886 the city council formed a planning committee to resolve problems of the Governor’s House. What to do? Repair the old structure? Replace it entirely? Or replace it and the courthouse with a large single structure at the western end? The Governor’s House—​more domestic than palatial—​was not in good shape: the roof leaked, it was cold in winter, the plumbing worked irregularly, and its offices were overcrowded. One thing was clear: if the old building would be replaced, it was important that it be both contemporary and in the same style as the older building.70 In 1891 the police moved out, temporarily relieving some of the space pressure, but discussions continued in the city council over the next decade. Studies in 1894 showed that renovation and replacement were equally costly.71 Matters became more critical as the city prepared to absorb

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the parish of Lundby on the north side of the Göta River (ultimately incorporated in 1906), notably increasing the responsibilities of the courts.72 In 1892, for the first time, the city council debated the prospect of an architectural competition to replace the old Governor’s House with a new building to be used as a courthouse extension.73 After defining the program, the justices also determined that the new building should be “up-to-​date, with central heating and a fire-​resistant archive, as well as a façade toward Gustaf Adolf square in the same style as that of the courthouse, and so arranged [when finished] that on the inside one can connect with the old courthouse building.”74 The council reiterated similar intentions in 1904, and a drawing by the architect Ernst Krüger (1859–1926) suggested a possible, albeit deeply traditional, solution: with a tripartite portico echoing the old façade and a grand campanile to top the new building.75 Independently, in 1905, the architect Sigfrid Ericson (1879–1958) drew up a series of plans, elegantly printed as a brochure by the local printing firm of Waldemar Zachrisson, to stimulate further debate and possibly to win the commission (fig. 21).76 Ericson’s proposal swept away both courthouse and Governor’s House at the west end of the square, disencumbering the Kristine Church, “perhaps our most beautiful building.” He proposed to replace the courthouse and the Governor’s House with a grand National Romantic pile.77 Ericson’s proposal was oddly out of step with evolving German practice, which was to protect city fabrics, and his proposal backfired to the extent that city officials, responding to local opinion or municipal economy, affirmed their intention not to replace the old courthouse but “to retain at least the main structure of the building, . . . one of the oldest monuments of Gothenburg’s

ancient times.”78 A subcommittee (architects Eugen Thorburn, Ernst Krüger, and J. E. Leo and councilor Otto Mannheimer) reported their concerns to the city council, proposing an open architectural competition.79 In 1906 city officials evacuated from the Governor’s House, leaving only functions connected to the law courts. The problem of the replacement of the Governor’s House, however, continued to appeal to architects and even the general public.80 When in 1912 a competition for a new building was finally announced, the only functions included in the program for the building to replace the Governor’s House related to the activities of the law courts, reflecting a decision that specialization was necessary for effective function.81 A group of councilors, including Mannheimer, and architectural experts (Krüger and Ernst Torulf ), as well as the chief judge Bernhard Lindberg and the judicial mayor Erik Trana, affirmed that, regardless of the outcome, S w eden: Got henburg a nd I t s Cour t house

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Figure 21 Sigfrid Ericson, proposal for a new courthouse and reorganized Gustaf Adolf square. The grand scale of this proposal expresses aspirations rather than practical realities. From Ericson, Bidrag till lösning af Göteborgs rådhusfråga (Gothenburg: Wald. Zachrisson, 1905), 8.

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every effort would be made to preserve the old courthouse.82 The replacement of an elderly, dilapidated, and relatively small structure in a wealthy city with a population of 130,000 (1900) should not have presented insurmountable problems. By the 1880s it was clear to everyone in the city administration, at least, that something had to

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be done about the former Governor’s House. Even so, it took almost twenty years to agree even to hold a competition (1912), and another twenty years passed before construction began—​by which time the population of the city had doubled again. In the competition and its aftermath, issues of politics and municipal representation played themselves out fully.

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Asplund’s Multiple Visions, 1913–1937

Chap ter 2

T

he glacial pace for the redevelopment of the site of the Governor’s House resulted neither from parsimony nor from the venerable character of the site—​either alone or together; replacing it was just difficult. Shifted off axis to the south, Tessin’s expanded courthouse took up two-​thirds of the west end of Gustaf Adolf square. Any new building filling the site of the Governor’s House, from the north wall of the courthouse to Köpmansgatan, had to coordinate with its larger neighbor as well as the other buildings on the square.1 In any case, despite occupying a plot only twenty-​two meters by thirty-​two meters, the new extension required four faces with distinct responsibilities: the major public façade, toward Gustaf Adolf square and aligned with the old courthouse façade; an inner face looking south toward the courtyard and the old courthouse; a face toward the narrow and relatively dark Köpmansgatan, to the north; and a minor western face toward the Kristine Church. Attached to its distinguished neighbor and wholly dependent on its adjacencies, the courthouse extension, despite its small scale, had representative responsibilities exceeding the other buildings on this major public square. Although Asplund’s special sensitivity to place is one of his defining virtues as an architect, the provision of multiple designs for the same building site over a twenty-five-​year

w

period (1913, 1916, 1918, 1920, 1924, 1925, 1934) forcefully highlights the factor of time. Accommodating significant architectural and political change in Sweden and in Europe as well as the rapid growth of the city of Gothenburg was the challenge. What was Asplund trying to achieve in these designs? To make sense of this complex sequence, the design-​development phase of the courthouse extension can be broken into three partially overlapping segments based on the scale and aspiration of the proposals and on the different approaches to the problem employed by the architect. 1.  The competition and its aftermath, 1913– 16. In the first phase came the competition of 1913 and subsequent requests from the jury for modifications to the original design. This phase lasted until 1916 and comprised the original competition entry and a significant reworking by Asplund. 2.  The courthouse extension and the square, 1915–26. In the second phase, Gustaf Adolf square took a leading role, and the designs took on larger urbanistic concerns. The Lindberg Foundation (Charles Felix Lindberg donationsfond), a private Gothenburg foundation with a mandate to beautify the city, invited Asplund to submit a proposal to renovate the entire square (1915). Following this submission, they organized an invited competition for redesign of the square, won by Asplund (1918). The 35

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original goal was to renovate the square in time for the Gothenburg jubilee celebrations in 1921, with the replacement of the Governor’s House as part of these plans, but the city shifted the celebrations to 1923 and decided to focus its architectural energy at the site of the Jubilee Exhibition, around Götaplatsen. In 1924, after the jubilee, Asplund, in response to requests from the city, provided a fresh set of plans for the square to reflect the city’s new metropolitan image. 3.  The final designs for the courthouse extension and construction of the building, 1934–1936. Only in 1934 did design work begin again on the extension alone, and excavation began in January 1935; the city removed the scaffolding from the façade in October 1936, by which time the interior was also largely complete. The final designs led to the building as completed. (However, no drawing documents the building exactly as built.) The Competition and Its Aftermath: Expressing a National Vision On 1 March 1913, thirty-​one competitors, including some of the best-​known names in Swedish architecture, submitted proposals to a jury composed of the architects Isak Gustaf Clason (1856–1930) and Erik Lallerstedt (1864–1955) and the chief magistrate Erik Trana (1847–1933). The results of the competition, announced two months later, gave victory to a young and relatively inexperienced Gunnar Asplund. The jury awarded second prize to Osvald Almqvist (1884–1950), a former fellow student of Asplund’s, and the jury also suggested that the city should buy the entries of Carl Bergsten (1879–1935), Asplund’s former teacher, and Otar Hökerberg (1892–1960). The team of Gothenburg city architect Karl Samuelsson (1881–1944), with C. Nyqvist and 36

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E. B. Isberg, and the entry of Ivar Callmander (1880–1951) were also premiated. Asplund’s entry, with the musical motto “Andante,” was bold (fig. 22). Instead of maintaining or strengthening the entrance from Gustaf Adolf square, Asplund effaced it, conclusively drawing a light-​brown stone wall across the façade. The new entrance—​now the only entrance—​was from Norra Hamngatan, from the south face of the old courthouse, toward Stora Hamnkanalen, where he roughed in a sculptural ensemble over double stairs to provide a termination for Norra Hamngatan and the line of buildings along the canal (fig. 23). To compensate for the loss of the old courthouse façade, Asplund offered a notably clear south-to-​north passage through the building, a solution, he noted, that was both “aesthetic and practical.”2 He proposed to cover the old courtyard, the only significant remnant of Tessin’s original building, with a glass roof, creating a new interior space to serve as an anteroom to the law courts. A formal stair led to an extended balcony and waiting hall running east to west that Asplund called the “Salle des Pas Perdus,” and he bridged the second courtyard, behind the stairs, with another balcony that ran north to south (fig. 24). Reorienting the building had a practical gain: Asplund’s processional plan was lucid and the spaces effectively distinguished one from another. Its most radical touch was the orderless-​pilaster façade toward Gustaf Adolf square. The result was spartan in character and reflected his interpretation of Gothenburg’s architectural ambitions for a grand central law court (going back at least to Sigfrid Ericson’s proposal of 1905) to rival the nearly completed monumental courthouse in Stockholm (1911–15) of Carl Westman. To fit into its surroundings Asplund recalled two well-​known Dutch buildings in

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Figure 22 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, competition entry “Andante,” 1913, perspective collage, view toward the west across Gustaf Adolf square. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, B2047. Figure 23 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, competition entry “Andante,” 1913, view of the southern face, toward Stora Hamnkanalen. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, B2049.

Stockholm: Louis de Geers’s palace (1646–51) and the House of the Nobles (begun 1641), both of which employed multi­bayed giant-​pilaster façades. Surprisingly, perhaps, the central square of Gothenburg, although laid out by Dutch engineers, lacked Dutch-​influenced architectural forms, so the reference was apt. In its simplicity, it made its materials its true subject, and Asplund’s design thus called on the friendly spirits of Swedish National Romantic architecture. Yet the building had a notable flaw, overlooked by the jury in awarding Asplund first prize but the subject of a subsequent request for revision. Although they admired the façade toward the canal, the façade toward the square did not look like a law court or, really, much like a government building at all. As they wrote, “Concerning the façades, the A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 24 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, competition entry “Andante,” 1913, ground plan. Gustaf Adolf square is to the right; the Kristine Church is to the left. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, B2040.

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jury considers that without some revision the design can hardly be considered characteristic of ‘the dignity of justice’ that the author of the proposal in his description points out should characterize a building of that sort, and cannot be observed.”3

The modifications Asplund had to make must have been somewhat disheartening for him. The references to Dutch architecture had to be adjusted, and following his trip to Italy in 1913–14, he submitted new designs in July 1916 (fig. 25). These plans took account of the committee’s criticisms and his own new experiences abroad. Asplund built up the new entrance facing the canal with a giant-​order triumphal entry, borrowed from the monumental post office building (1913–25, fig. 26) of Ernst Torulf (1872–1936) then under construction on nearby Drottningtorget, to give the building both contextual reference and greater stately authority. He opened two modest entry portals to Gustaf Adolf square on either side of the center axis to suggest the appearance of a single building, and he preserved the original north-​ south interior circulation. To maintain the reference to Dutch architecture, he added swags under the windows, recalling works such as Justus Vingboon’s Trippen House, Amsterdam (1662), which, much like Asplund’s proposal, concealed two separate buildings behind its unified façade. The new proportional character of the building—​the result of a lower roof line—​seems less Dutch than Italian, however, recalling the Palazzo della Cancelleria, Rome, or, even closer to home, the Italianate Royal Palace in Stockholm. In his program statement he attempted to justify his decision by stressing the virtues of unifying the two buildings behind one façade, noting that only the eastern face, toward Gustaf Adolf square, received morning sun.4 Function, visual effect, and environmental conditions supported his solution; but when it was brought before the committee, members still criticized it for failing to retain sufficient elements of the old courthouse. Perhaps they had been alerted by the response of the right-​ wing newspaper Vidi (its motto “Ensam är

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Figure 25 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, revised elevation design dated 12 July 1916. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A538. Figure 26 Ernst Torulf, Gothenburg Central Post Office, 1913–25, view from the west. The post office was located on Drottningtorget. Jolin & Wilkenson, Gothenburg.

stark” translates as “Solitary Strength”) to the restoration of the exterior and courtyard of the courthouse by the architectural team of Arvid Bjerke (1880–1952) and R. O. Swensson in May 1916. The architectural work seemed modest enough—​it included the erection of a small fountain in the center of the courtyard—​but the newspaper, echoing the objections of the great nationalist poet Verner von Heidenstam (1859–1940) to the restorations of the late nineteenth century, was appalled: “Vandalism at the Courthouse” was the headline.5 Showing an expert’s knowledge of restoration techniques, the newspaper accused the architects of removing the yellow paint on the exterior with “stone carvers’ hammers” instead of “flat iron or wood-​headed hammers.” The newspaper

also took aim at the city’s informal leader in aesthetic matters, Axel L. Romdahl (1880– 1951), the director of the art museum, for his apparent indifference to the fate of the courthouse, parodying his self-​importance by calling A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 27 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, renovation proposal, November 1915, aerial view. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, E84.

him “direktör Jag Axel,” an untranslatable piece of mockery, something along the lines of “me, Axel, the boss.”6 It was not an auspicious beginning and spelled the end of Asplund’s efforts to give the building the character of a municipally scaled unified structure. The old building had to be protected. Despite these setbacks, ambitions now ran higher. The Courthouse Extension and the Square Wartime was not a propitious time to build. Neutral Sweden still needed money for defense, and even a small building, like the replacement for the Governor’s House, seemed a luxury. Nonetheless, in the fall of 1914 the 40

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Lindberg Foundation proposed the redevelopment of Gustaf Adolf square, expected to be the centerpiece for the city’s jubilee celebrations in 1921.7 The Lindberg Foundation had been interested in Gustaf Adolf square since 1912, when it had planted trees and bushes on the south side of the square, and at first they just asked Asplund to provide designs to indicate how a redesigned square might look. In a striking aerial perspective dated 1915, Asplund moved the statue of Gustav Adolf to the side of the square (perhaps thinking of the sculpture in the Piazza della Signoria in Florence) and placed a single stone column crowned with a bronze ship celebrating the port at the east end of the square (fig. 28).8 He unified the north

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Figure 28 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, renovation proposal, November 1915, plan. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, E83.

wall of buildings to a common height behind a partial screen and bridged over Torggatan at the northwest corner. In angling the north wall of the square inward to meet the corner of the new courthouse extension, he broke up the geometric regularity of the space. Most powerfully, the bird’s-​eye view showed the old city to the river and beyond while a communal festive celebration and musical performance took place in the square—​perhaps Gustav Adolfsdagen itself? In one of the most striking pieces of civic imagery, Asplund introduced an outline map of the original plan of the city into the paving of the square (fig. 28). Pleased with the result, the foundation then organized an invited competition.9 They assembled a jury to

consider projects by four architectural teams: Asplund; Ericson, Bjerke, and Swensson; Eugen Thorburn (1860–1931); and Westman. On the basis of Asplund’s new proposal, the foundation awarded the commission to him in 1918 (fig. 29). Asplund was now engaged on interrelated and overlapping projects on the same site, which increased the variables in play in the replacement of the Governor’s House: after all, the new building had to be conceived in the context of a new square. It was, perhaps, the high point of his own engagement with Gothenburg.10 Between 1916 and 1925, Asplund’s conceptions changed, reflecting first the urban theories of the Austrian planner Camillo Sitte (1843–1903) and then, responding to the altered A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 29 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square, Gothenburg, renovation proposal, winning entry for the competition of 1918. Regionoch stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A 559: 2.

aspirations of the city after the Jubilee Exhibition, those of Sitte’s compatriot Otto Wagner (1841–1918). Asplund’s submissions of 1915, the first to the Lindberg Foundation, are the most strongly influenced by Sitte. Asplund was fascinated by the concept of “place.” In a lecture published in 1916 he examined early views of Stockholm and compared them with recent additions to the city fabric.11 While the lecture addressed the problem of apartment buildings specifically, the broader issue in play was the nature of the city environment. In the place of these colossal structures he sought a more

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modest contextual anonymity. “We must envy the unity and the peaceful, modest middle class in the character of the private house, admire the builders’ or the contractors’ general good taste and their instinctive inclination for the evident and correct recognition that the private house should subordinate itself to public space and coordinate itself with the environs.” Later he generalized this observation into a metaphor drawn from painting: A painter who wants to do a landscape painting with a red cabin and a green

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pasture, and thereby attempts an illusionistic effect, places a little of the green from the pasture onto the red color of the cabin and makes it seem that the red of the cabin softly grows from nature itself. In the same way can the architect make a new building that seems to grow naturally from the surroundings simply by borrowing something from the surroundings in the building’s scale, material, construction type, and motif. In a statement italicized for emphasis, Asplund noted, “One forgets that it is more important to follow the style of the place than the style of the times.”12 Much of this argument is reflected in these preliminary submission plans. In a letter to the Lindberg Foundation dated November 1915, he stressed the city’s opportunities: “hardly any Swedish city had better opportunity to create so unified a central space that might serve for its major communal celebrations.”13 He sought to return the square to its “noble calm” by restricting the incessant diagonal traffic through the square. Of the buildings, only Tessin’s Courthouse and the Exchange would be spared; the others would be refaced in yellow brick with gray-​white pilasters to provide a distinctive identity with contrasting scale but similar colors. In a site without strong architectural or topographical contrasts, Asplund introduced variety by angling the north façade of the square and connecting it via an arch at the western end to the new “Governor’s House.” A smaller square visually adjacent but physically separate from the main square provided a secondary vista. “The new placement of the statue,” Asplund pointed out to the Lindberg Foundation, “should enable all spectators to see the sculpture frontally at the festivities on the sixth of November as well as

enable school children and societies with their flags to arrange themselves in a more ceremonious and striking manner.”14 Many of these elements carried over into the more modest competition submission of 1918. The guiding program for Asplund’s redesign of Gustaf Adolf square in these early phases (the preliminary submission of 1915, the competition submission of 1918, and the revisions until 1920) was a historical study prepared for the city by the art historian Sixten Strömbom (1893–1963). Ultimately published in 1917, Strömbom’s forty-​four-page booklet provided a documentary history of the square through historic images.15 What caught Strömbom’s eye was not the industrial or commercial character of the square but the picturesque quality of daily life.16 In considering the painter Elias Martin’s late eighteenth-​century view of Gustaf Adolf square, for example, Strömbom devoted special attention to the figure groups in the image: a mother and her children buying apples from an old woman, a squire riding in his cart over the bridge (fig. 30). Gustaf Adolf square, he asserted, was a place where people met and talked, and the site was rich with strong local color: “the sculls that punt under Lejonbron’s high vault toward Järnvägsbryggan [the railroad bridge], boats whose masts and tackle show themselves in the open air between the houses and trees [as they head] for the inland waterways and the coastal trade. The courthouse, in front of Kristine Church, is without question the most dominating of buildings. It is remarkable how little the courthouse, with two equally strong façades, supports the spatial character of the square.”17 Instead, the strength of the square’s architecture, he noted, was found in its variety: “different buildings come from different time periods

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Figure 30 Elias Martin, view of central Gothenburg across Stora Hamnkanal to the west, ca. 1780 (fig. 19), detail showing the lively activity that Strömbom wished to emphasize. Stadsmuseum, Gothenburg, GM: 18777.

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and different architectural sources but still form a beautiful collection.”18 Strömbom’s task, apparently descriptive, was also prescriptive: the social history of the space should play a role in any future development.19 Strömbom’s stress on the episodic vitality of urban life in the context of a historically rich and varied architecture derived from the Austrian planner Camillo Sitte. Sitte’s influence on city planning in Gothenburg had been critical since the beginning of the century, and Asplund’s proposals too reflected his importance. Gothenburg’s planners Per Olof Hallman (1869–1941) and Fredrik Sundbärg (1860–1913) had followed Sitte’s course in Germany and in 1901 had won a competition for the city’s urban plan.20 Through them, and through the work of their follower Albert Lilienberg (1879–1967), who was Gothenburg’s chief planning officer (1907–27) and served on the jury that awarded Asplund first prize for his designs for Gustaf Adolf square, Sitte was the paramount influence on the city’s development.21 In Der Städtebau nach seinen künstlerischen Grundsätzen

(1889) Sitte had argued for a visual harmony between the monument and its urban context, placing the spectator to take advantage of a variety of views and vistas, a position reflected in Strömbom’s text. Building variety into the city, the planner should create urban stage sets, historical assemblages to lend interest to the streetscape, and Sitte placed special emphasis on the urban square, which was often left open as an unfilled blank space in northern European cities as a result of the mechanical application of the grid. Alternatively, Sitte illustrated a series of models for the exposition of his urban principles based on the medieval Italian piazza. Gustaf Adolf square offered an ideal demonstration project: the weakness of regularity, the picturesque possibilities created by the statue of Gustav Adolf, and the architectural variety of the buildings on a square, which had developed piecemeal over time. Strengthening these qualities, balancing architectural grandeur and variety, had been Strömbom’s intention and would rule Asplund’s continuing studies of the site, which culminated in a presentation to the city and the Lindberg Foundation in 1920. The influence of Sitte, however, had moderated since the sunny watercolors of 1915: the competition entry of 1918 and the plans of 1920 (fig. 31) were a good deal more restrained under the cloud of economic limitations. Still, in 1920 Asplund broke up the northern wall to create contrasts: he proposed to add a further story to the city hall, to add new stone columns to the lower level of the Exchange Building, to construct a portico to cross Östra Hamnkanalen, creating an entry point toward the port; spaces would unfold, be framed, and then be reframed. In a series of studies from April 1919, Asplund even thought about opening the old Tessin courtyard westward to the

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Figure 31 Gunnar Asplund, proposal plan for the renovation of Gustaf Adolf square, 15 February 1920. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, DR2000:0024.

neighboring Kristine Church to create a hidden urban piazza dominated by a church (fig. 32), recalling Italian examples such as Francesco Borromini’s Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza in Rome. He seems to have decided against that solution and may never even have proposed it formally. Studies of the square from the ground level executed around 1920 suggest a flâneur’s environment with an urban population at rest rather than laboring, spaces—​to use Sitte’s own phrases—​filled with “a colorful, lively crowd,” with the “colorful bustle of folk festivals,

carnivals, and other parades, of religious processions and theatrical performances.”22 In one drawing, Asplund delicately exchanged Elias Martin’s old woman selling apples for a man selling balloons (fig. 33). Sitte’s influence on Asplund’s design was not just an abstract matter alone. Softening the edges of the old engineer’s square advanced social aims as well, and in these representations of the city at play Asplund showed the social and political values of a newly designed central square. Had this work been completed, A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 32 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for the opening of the west wall of Gustaf Adolf square toward the Kristine Church, ca. 1919. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, DR1999:0022. Figure 33 Gunnar Asplund, Gustaf Adolf square seen from the south, with the proposed new city hall and a balloon seller, ca. 1920. Regionoch stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A595.

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Gothenburg would have joined cities like Hamburg in the vanguard of urban development. There, the architect Fritz Schumacher (1869–1947) had brought Sitte’s principles to bear on the working areas of the city as well as the new residential zones, creating what the historian Maiken Umbach has called an “urban regionalism” to complement the rural iconography of Heimat. In emphasizing spaces for communal activity, Asplund echoed what Schumacher aimed to achieve in the Stadtpark, a place for “the exemplary conduct of an ideal social life.”23 For Sitte, moreover, the essential virtue of city space was in individual experience, and Asplund’s representational manner, with views taken at ground level, suggested the psychology of an individual’s experience in the city, of making the qualities of urban life actual for each citizen.24 Drawings for the courthouse extension, part of a proposal dated 15 February 1920, show that

Asplund attempted to retain the Dutch character in the new building while turning his back on the idea of a single façade (fig. 34). Although forced to split extension from courthouse and to bridge the gap with a single-​bay link, he still managed to emphasize the new building’s vertical character. Tall windows at the second floor (including a central triad capped with pediments) lent it the character of an Amsterdam (or Dutch) late sixteenth- or early seventeenth-​ century canal-​side building. The city halls of Enkhuizen (1686–88) and Leeuwarden (1713– 15) provided possible models. At the attic level, corresponding to the triglyphs and metopes of the neighboring courthouse, Asplund designed small rectangular windows, the only notable element from early designs to carry through to the completed building. However, the decision to distinguish extension from courthouse and to keep the main entry toward Gustaf Adolf square had unfortunate consequences

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Figure 34 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for the façade to the courthouse extension, 15 February 1920. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, DR1994:0109.

for the interior circulation. Preservation of the (recently restored) interior courtyard of the courthouse, along with its fountain, also ensured that the extension would be of secondary importance. To address that issue, Asplund reconfigured the central hall as a rotunda to provide greater theatricality in the manner advocated by Sitte. Peter Blundell Jones has observed how in these designs Asplund coaxes the visitor through a building without recourse to axial symmetry; the inner rotunda was clearly an attempt to recapture some of the monumentality lost as a result of the division of

the building into two parts (fig. 35).25 Asplund offered a hide-and-​seek exposed spiral stair perhaps inspired by the great staircase at Chambord (1519–47), the Scala del Bòvolo in Venice (1499), or even, closer to hand, the stair inside Westman’s Stockholm Courthouse. The year 1920 marked a resting point, not least because it was clear that the jubilee would not provide the stimulus for a major reorganization of the square. Costs for the most minimal intervention had been estimated at 390,000 kronor and in the economic downturn after World War I had been deemed too A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 35 Gunnar Asplund, north-​south section through the proposed courthouse extension with the grand staircase to the north. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-841 HE.

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high.26 Even shifting the date for the celebration of Gothenburg’s jubilee from 1921 to 1923 had not helped. Or rather, the city’s attention moved to the construction of the buildings for the jubilee industrial fair around Götaplatsen, the great new formal square at the southern end of Kungsportsavenyn (or Avenyn), the long straight street that led south from the old city.27 Piecemeal changes in Gustaf Adolf square now rendered aspects of Asplund’s earlier plans obsolete, as did the growing flood of motorized traffic and the need for parking. In 1921 Albert Lilienberg proposed to deck over Östra Hamnkanalen at the east end of the square to create a broad north-​south avenue for automobiles and trolley cars—​a proposal that had to wait until 1936 for completion but still suggested that the square could not remain forever a sacred civic precinct.28 In November 1921 Lilienberg, the city’s planner, and in February 1922, Karl Samuelsson, the city’s first architect, also provided commentaries on Asplund’s proposals. They did not endorse Asplund’s plans. Though Lilienberg thought the linkage between the buildings had been underlined effectively by Asplund, he offered a hypothesis about the city’s future development: what would be the

effect should tall buildings come to the streets around Gustaf Adolf square? “The square, with its sharply divided façades, dimensioned in little units, seems to be an idyllic small town in the middle of the modern business center of a large city.”29 While tall buildings, because of the economic depression, would not be built immediately, it had to be assumed that change would come and that Asplund’s plans needed to take into account possible developments. Lilienberg also had concerns about the placement of trees, the possible removal of trolleys from Södra Hamngatan, and plans for filling in Östra Hamngatan. Samuelsson underlined these concerns in his report as well. While he approved of Asplund’s attempt to relate façade elements one to another, he was concerned about the future, when apartment buildings might crowd the square. Samuelsson’s solution, decidedly un-​Sittean and closer in spirit to the scheme at Götaplatsen, was to unify the entire square with a bounding wall. It was this path that Asplund now followed in his presentation of a wholly new set of drawings on 26 June 1924.30 They utterly reframed the problem of the central square. The drawings from 1924 (and a formal presentation) echoed Samuelsson’s critique (fig. 36). Presented as hard-​line drawings, in raking perspective and in a pared-​down representational style, these new proposals replace variety with homogeneity, and theatricality with controlled archaeological precision. Recollections of Sitte have been all but obliterated; the north side of the square has been entirely regularized; the statue of Gustav Adolf has been returned to isolation in the center of the square; and the city blocks recede into perspective alongside a long stoa-​like portico. Hakon Ahlberg, in a monograph published shortly after Asplund’s death, connected the hard-​line

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representational techniques of these drawings (and in those for the Stockholm Public Library as well) to the drawings of Rome by Paul Letarouilly (1795–1855).31 The architectural model may also have been the buildings of Karl Friedrich Schinkel in Berlin or archaeological reconstructions of an ancient stoa or a Roman imperial forum or possibly the Piazza San Marco in Venice. These are the sources resting behind Samuelsson’s ambition for Götaplatsen and the Jubilee Exhibition (8 May– 15 October 1923) that Asplund’s plans now reflected. The city’s achievement of metropolitan status, according to Samuelsson, depended on embracing the new scale. The purpose of the Jubilee Exhibition was to celebrate the three-hundredth anniversary of the city’s first charter. It was the first industrial

exhibition to take place in Sweden after the war and presented to a national and international audience the extraordinary achievements of Swedish industry in general and those of Gothenburg in particular. Five million visitors admired demonstrations of the remarkable ball bearings of SKF, the skills of glass production from Orrefors, and the great ships built by the Gothenburg company Götaverken. The overarching theme of the exhibition, however, was the bond between past and future industry. As described by the historian of technology Anders Houltz, the exhibition sought to show how the historical traditions of technology related to both present practices and a vision of a modernized Sweden. Thus, in the great hall (formed in the shape of a Greek temple) exhibitions demonstrated historical and A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 36 Proposal for the renovation of Gustaf Adolf square, June 1924, view from the south across Stora Hamnkanalen. The proposal anticipates decking over Södra Hamnkanalen. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A560.

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Figure 37 Arvid Bjerke, R. O. Swensson, Ernst Torulf, and Sigfrid Ericson, Gothenburg Art Museum, 1923, at the head of Götaplatsen. The view shows the site as seen during the Jubilee Exhibition, before the erection of the statue of Poseidon by Carl Milles (1931). To the right of the museum is the konsthall; to the far left were the temporary offices of the exhibition, later the site of the city theater by Carl Bergsten (1928–34); to the far right is the future site of the concert hall by Nils Einar Eriksson (1933–35). Malmeströms konstförlag, Gothenburg.

contemporary technological techniques side by side, proving the continuity of past and present and, by extrapolation, future.32 The exhibition also signaled a change in architectural style for the city. If variety of scale had been a characteristic that the followers of Camillo Sitte had proposed in the first two decades of the new century, a much-​debated return to a monumental classical order held sway over the next decades. The only significant building left by the exhibition was Bjerke, Swensson, Torulf, and Ericson’s monumental art museum (1919–23). Raised up over a grand pair of staircases, it formed the perspectival termination to Avenyn (fig. 37). If Avenyn and Götaplatsen, with the art museum on axis (and plans to add a theater and a concert hall to either side), presented the new classical Capitolium of Gothenburg, Gustaf Adolf square

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became the city’s forum as Samuelsson’s building commission now pursued a more monumental and cohesive presentation of the buildings around the square. What Asplund sought to do, therefore, was to bring the monumentality of the plans for Götaplatsen to Gustaf Adolf square. As a matter of presentation, the slanting perspectives even recalled Otto Wagner’s design for the Großstadt (1911), with the portico in its Greek simplicity representing honest construction. The modern city around it was empty, anonymous, and, in perspective view, suggestive of infinite expansion. Gothenburg’s population (around 130,000 in 1900) even matched Wagner’s definition of the ideal size for one of the Großstadt’s districts.33 In his designs Asplund may also have been influenced by his experience of the United States. In late summer 1920,

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together with the librarian Fredrijk Hjelmqvist, he had traveled to the United States to study American libraries, part of the preparations for the Stockholm Public Library. Their journey took them to the major cities on the East Coast and in the Midwest. Asplund took a lively interest in his surroundings, photographing many sites himself and purchasing postcards, many of which remained in his collection until his death. What Asplund would have discovered in the United States was that the classicism of the City Beautiful designers, with their sometimes-​ mechanical formal repetition, could be read as modern and as an appropriate architecture for the representation of the classical roots of a modern democracy. (His was not unlike the experience the Englishman Charles Reilly had a decade earlier.) The long straight streets and City Beautiful plans for Detroit, Buffalo, Washington, D.C., and New York City must have fascinated the visiting Swedes. Asplund could now read classicism not in terms of Gustav III or as part of the Swedish interpretation of a foreign classical tradition, not even as something genuinely archaeological, but as democratic modernism, an enlightened democratic vision of the future Großstadt.34 In short, the Sittean period of Gothenburg’s development, with its irregular lively variety, was over. In its place was silent, empty, modern monumentality. A sense of the uncertainty around architecture is revealed in an exhibition of Swedish architecture (the only one in the period) at Göteborgs Konsthall in the fall of 1924. Reviewing the exhibition in Handelstidningen, the architect Sten Franzell (1893–1959), a friend of Alvar Aalto and later the city architect in Gothenburg, lamented “columns and dentils, dentils and columns, skillfully and meticulously copied from well-​known models.” (Asplund’s

work was illustrated by the Skandia Cinema, Stockholm.)35 Once again nothing was done. Axel Romdahl reviewed Asplund’s proposals (officially the proposals of the city building commission) across four newspaper columns in Handelstidningen on 16 December 1926. “The mountains eventually gave birth to a rat,” was the opening line describing his reaction to the seemingly endless series of plans culminating in the proposals of 1924. Romdahl’s dissatisfaction was based on a number of factors—​but the most important was the fact that regularity would never work in a square where, unlike the Piazza San Marco in Venice, for example, the city could control only two axes. Romdahl returned to the logic of Sixten Strömbom. The square had “unassuming architecture that is not isolated from the surrounding townscape.” The square “melts into a whole picture of water, bridges, streets, rows of houses, trees, and in the background the faded heights, an urban landscape of picturesque rather than architectural charm, open to wind and light, but not closed.”36 Asplund’s last drawings from this period suggest that Romdahl’s critique had won the day. Whatever the visionary possibilities in a decade of design, no grand renovation of Gustaf Adolf square was now possible. In 1925 Asplund provided drawings for the courthouse extension alone. On the exterior the effort to refer to the Dutch antecedents of the city dimmed further (fig. 38). Now Asplund’s design only echoed Tessin’s Courthouse using the identical formal vocabulary of the earlier building. Possibly he was distracted by work on the Stockholm Public Library or may have used the occasion to mock his patrons with a self-​referential parody: if they were so animated by love of Tessin’s expanded

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Figure 38 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, proposal of 1925, façade. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-11.

courthouse, let them have it again! Whatever the case, these exterior façade designs seem among the least innovative and, when published, won little enthusiasm from the press or city council committees.37 On the interior he moved toward a harder lithic style (fig. 39). Here too he eliminated human exchange, something that had flowered in his drawings during the early twenties. The rectangular hall at the center of the new extension is restrained and highly ordered, recalling Werkbund models in Germany such as Heinrich Tessenow’s Hellerau Theater, Dresden (1911), or any number of modernized Beaux-​Arts buildings that Asplund might have seen in the United 52

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States. Or perhaps it was just local Swedish models that were important: Östberg’s Blue Hall in Stockholm’s city hall (1911–23) or Carl Bergsten’s Liljevalchs Konsthall, Stockholm (1913–15). From the latter he moved the colonnade, redeploying the railings to three levels, and transferred the windows to the ground level (fig. 40). Bergsten’s building had been particularly praised by Gregor Paulsson in Den nya arkitekturen (1916) for its “barren nakedness,” and Asplund now sought what Paulsson described as “the modern tendency to raise objectivity to form, that which will give life value to the architecture of the future.”38 Its “nakedness,” to use Paulsson’s term, was at its

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Figure 39 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, proposal of 1925, interior hall. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-14.

essence. In specifying the quadratic outlines of the stones, in setting the windows in deep frames revealing the thickness of the walls, and in setting out the pavement as a perspective grid, Asplund made a clear statement about construction. And in leaving the hall empty—​ the only figure in the drawing is a partially hidden statue of Justice with a drawn sword standing in the alcove at the top of the stairs—​ Asplund fashioned the hall as he had laid out the square at the end of 1924, as an empty place. This was a building designed to provide a recollection of the classical past and to impress visitors with its practical and efficient order.

Against this background of a tug-of-​war between Sitte and Wagner (or Samuelsson and Romdahl), Asplund’s designs halted. The estimate for the courthouse renovation alone, so Göteborgs morgonpost declared in 1926, “would cost 1 million kronor,” without any of the other changes to Gustaf Adolf square.39 Not only was the façade the least adventurous of all Asplund’s proposals, as “B. B——​m.” (the novelist Birger Beckman, 1906–1984) noted in Handelstidningen, but the economic position of the city hardly allowed construction at this point.40 At the end of January 1926 the city agreed.41 When the chief magistrate A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 40 Carl Bergsten, Liljevalchs Konsthall, Stockholm, 1913–16, entry hall. This was one of the most admired Swedish interiors of its day, with its simplified classicism recalling German architects such as Heinrich Tessenow. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1962-102-030.

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Bernhard Lindberg testified before a national commission on municipal court buildings in 1928, he centered his presentation around the judges’ cramped facilities but made no mention of future hopes or past efforts.42 Plans for the reorganization of the square focused on the management of traffic.43 The city spent 53,000 kronor on a new heating system and new toilets for the courthouse and Governor’s House in 1931.44 The Lindberg Foundation, capping their efforts on Gustaf Adolf square, erected three bronze flagpoles by R. O. Swensson and Bror Chronander at the eastern end of the square (1932).45 The failure of the city to renovate the buildings around Gustaf Adolf square or even to replace the decaying Governor’s House after more than twenty years of design and discussion is not unprecedented, but it is remarkable when one considers how extensive were the urban and architectural changes elsewhere in

Gothenburg in the decade between 1923 and 1933. The Jubilee Exhibition led to a massive permanent urban transformation on the southern side of the city, with construction of the art museum, soon to be followed by construction of the concert hall (Nils Einar Eriksson, 1931–35) and the city theater (Carl Bergsten, 1926–34). Grouped around Götaplatsen, the three-​sided scenic termination to Avenyn, the ensemble embodied the city’s new metropolitan ambitions. Additionally, nodes had developed elsewhere around new cultural institutions: the natural history museum (Ernst Torulf, 1916–23), high above Slottskogen at the crossroads of Linnéplatsen, and the maritime museum (Karl M. Bengtsson, 1933), above the port along Karl Johansgatan, were the most notable. Costing 9 million kronor, the construction of a central post office (Ernst Torulf, 1915–25) near the train station demonstrated that the city was not afraid to be bold even within the central core (see fig. 6). Industrial Gothenburg also thought large. The State Tobacco Warehouse (Cyrillus Johansson, 1928), with its eleven bays and modern concrete skeleton, was one of the biggest buildings in Gothenburg, and Amerikahuset (Arvid Bjerke and F. O. Peterson, 1919–25), built for Svenska Lloyd to accommodate trade with the Americas, if not larger, was somewhat ludicrously monumental with its five-​story temple front (fig. 41). All these buildings, private and public, underline the distinctive status of Gustaf Adolf square. In the scheme of Gothenburg’s urbanism, the courthouse extension might be humility itself, a fractional structure replacing a decaying older structure; nonetheless, it stood at the center of the city’s collective memory and self-​image. Its transformation was not going to be easy. Private money, the lifeblood of the city, could not be used, and it competed for

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public funds with the state’s many other needs. Only outside intervention could help. The Final Design The deus ex machina came with the downturn in employment early in the 1930s. The Social Democratic government that came to power in the autumn of 1932 launched a bold economic program to address the problems of unemployment.46 In the spring of 1933, after scrapping a work-​relief program in place since 1914, they proposed 33 million kronor for a public-​works stimulus plan to be bid on the open market and another 125 million kronor to be spent immediately on infrastructure. With new money available from the central government, it was finally possible for the city of Gothenburg to undertake the construction of the new courthouse extension.47 The city council reopened the issue in 1933, investigating the long and somewhat tortured history of false starts to the courthouse extension.48 On the basis of the last phase of design drawings of 1925, they requested a grant of 206,000 kronor from the central government and an amortization loan of 1,091,000 kronor for the remainder.49 Bernhard Lindberg, the chief magistrate, wrote to Asplund in November thanking him for his continued interest in the project and hoping that together they could complete the building after so many years devoted to the problem.50 The only restriction was that work had to begin immediately. The magistrates—​some reluctantly—​turned back to Asplund, asking him to update his plans.51 After so many years, the irony of the situation was not lost on the editor of Handelstidningen, Torgny Segerstedt (1876–1945). In the regular column he authored for the newspaper, he wrote, “So one can talk about unemployment’s blessed effects. Had there been no

unemployment, we would have received no governmental subsidy, and had there been no subsidy, then the courthouse extension would not have been built.” Segerstedt continued, offering words of warning: This time is not like Götaplatsen. It is not a situation in which the old building complex stands out from the past history with its own claims. Its character is interlaced with the city’s own history. It is, in other words, a part of Gothenburg that our fathers built. It follows therefore that some things one would unwillingly see disregarded. It won’t do to treat such a building as a model to be formed with raw clay. The powerful obligations of tradition will come to mind in many ways, binding and forcing one’s own inspiration. What will be done now cannot easily be undone. May one move forward with the prudence and delicacy the matter requires. There has already been the word, gossiping about the desire of the times to transform and trivialize. That is easily done. A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 41 Arvid Bjerke and F. O. Peterson, Amerikahuset, Gothenburg, 1919–25. Built by Svenska Lloyd, the building contained offices, apartments, and storage areas. A. B. Götebörgs Konstförlag.

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In a hasty turn the square can be deprived of its architectural character, which under the last century has been its hallmark. Kämpebron [the iron-​railed bridge across Stora Hamnkanalen that had been rebuilt in 1925] was a rather brutal encroachment on the only truly characteristic piece of townscape that Gothenburg owns. It would not bear being unrecognizably changed.52 The building committee (and Asplund) might have done well to commit Segerstedt’s words to memory. Under thirty years of age at the time of the first competition, Asplund was now a distinguished senior figure. He had served as editor of the architectural supplement to Teknisk tidskrift between 1917 and 1920, and his practice had moved decisively away from single-​family houses to public architecture. In 1931 he had been appointed professor of architecture at the Kungliga tekniska högskolan (Royal Institute of Technology) in Stockholm. A critical change in Asplund’s approach to architecture had come with his appointment as head of design for the Stockholm Exhibition of 1930. Under the organizational leadership of Gregor Paulsson, head of the Svenska slöjdföreningen (the Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts), Asplund, with his assistants, had planned the exhibition site and designed the major pavilions in the first large-​scale public demonstration of modernism in Sweden. Hjördis Nordin, the wife of the architect Ivar Tengbom, depicted Asplund as “the man for modernism, who became severe through his monotonous straight lines, so pure that joy and charm became banned.”53 Hakon Ahlberg, author of the overview essay on Asplund’s career for a memorial volume (1943), described the architect’s conversion in similar terms: 56

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“There is something particularly touching in a conversion that occurs with such force and such naïve frankness that all the old is cast away like dust and ashes and is thereafter as if it never had existed. Asplund’s conversion to functionalism was of this kind, entirely honest, gripping, maybe naïve but grand.”54 In fact, on the evidence of his buildings and his approach to problems posed by the Gothenburg Courthouse extension, his conversion was not quite as straightforward or as thoroughgoing as it appeared to contemporaries. Although he now favored boxlike exterior walls, strip windows, and a judicious placement of exposed staircases and elevator shafts that behaved like abstract sculpture within the simplified lines of the spaces, he seems to have remained conscious of the lessons and the importance of historical architecture—​either because of his own disposition or because, as a good architect, he respected the wishes of his patrons. Asplund’s ambivalence about modernity is revealed in passages from acceptera, the architectural manifesto written by the key players from the Stockholm Exhibition and published in 1931. It was a peculiar document for a revolutionary movement. Utterly eclectic in style and tone, alternately long-​winded and telegraphic, acceptera was jointly authored by Uno Åhrén (1897–1977), Wolter Gahn (1890–1985), Sven Markelius (1889–1972), Gregor Paulsson, Eskil Sundahl (1890–1974), and Asplund. What joint authorship meant has never been made clear: the twelve chapters seem to have been assigned to individual authors, and in some accounts the entire book was assembled in a weeklong rush at a hotel in the Stockholm skärgård, the archipelago of islands beyond the harbor.55 In all likelihood, Asplund authored chapter 9, called “The Old and the New.”56 The chapter is written in the sketchy style of someone whose

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natural communication style is not the written word (unlike Paulsson and Åhrén), and it takes a skeptical view of recent architecture, highlighting its failure to express modern function in modern form. Buildings like Gothenburg’s art museum, which employed the forms of a Roman aqueduct on its façade rather than the natural clarity of the Liljevalchs Konsthall, are lampooned. (It was rather an impolitic jab—​one later returned by the director of the art museum, Axel Romdahl.) The author also mocks Ivar Tengbom’s rusticated Matchstick Palace in Stockholm (completed 1928), which deployed a Renaissance courtyard for the headquarters of a worldwide business empire. But the author—​and this is one of those points that helps tie it to him—​also pokes fun at Asplund’s earlier buildings, something that only the architect himself is likely to have done.57 Of his own public library in Stockholm, Asplund marvels that its architect had used the forms of an ancient castle for a democratic institution, and in one of the dialogues he even gently ridicules the designs for the Stockholm Exhibition:58 A gentleman: “Did you go the exhibition? Did you see Asplund’s boxes? The stranded ocean liner?” Yet despite its teleological tone, notably in the conclusion, where the reader is enjoined to “accept the reality that exists” and “look reality in the eye,” many passages in acceptera contain the nucleus of compromise.59 The author is neither an artist who wishes to draw attention to himself nor a straightforward functionalist. One can, in fact, select quotations from “The Old and the New” that build a substantially different impression, one that suggests an architect of prudence and respect for the role of historical architecture.

The multiplicity of ages in our environment . . . is valuable, adding richness to our lives in the same way as differences between the ages of people themselves. Old buildings offer a great deal of pleasure and stimulation today. We do not subscribe to the perpetual survival of traditional form but to our old tradition of straightforwardness, moderation, and friendliness, which we would like to believe is Swedish and which can find expression in widely differing forms. Sometimes it is right to preserve the old and avoid the new. Respect is a necessary social concept. A building must show respect for its neighbors, which can be expected to endure longer. Respect does not mean stylistic imitation—​we mean respect for the surrounding architectural scale, proportions, grouping, and color.60 The setting of old and new in proximity was inevitable. It was a historical process about which nothing could be done. “Everything new must clash with the old—​this is the very nature of development, just as a child, full of lust for life, is jarring next to the elderly.”61 At many points, indeed, the text echoes Asplund’s past experiences in Gothenburg and prefigures issues that would soon resound in his designing of public architecture in a modern idiom. In short, Asplund’s conversion, no matter how it seemed to contemporaries at this or that moment, was not Damascene. He was still conscious of his past, still in touch with the origins of his architecture. A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Final Designs Early in 1933 the city of Gothenburg became aware of the possibility that national-​ government grants might be available to support construction of the courthouse extension, and by November the court, in a divided decision, had approved Asplund’s drawings (based on the 1925 plans).62 In January 1934 they obtained cost estimates to build the 1925 plans and undertook to determine whether proposals then under discussion in the legal profession about trial reform might influence the design. Chief Magistrate Lindberg spoke to a meeting of the Gothenburg Bar Society on 29 May 1934 on “Gothenburg’s courthouse extension,” and though no record of his presentation survives, it is likely that he outlined the plans as they stood, since not all members would have been familiar with them.63 On 15 September Asplund wrote to the finance department, noting that he would use the drawings prepared in 1925 as a base.64 On 28 September the city council officially assigned oversight for construction to the real-​estate section of the city’s finance department (Drätselkammaren), which then formed a building committee (Rådhusbyggnadskommittén) with three members to represent the finance department (city councilors Axel Dahlström, G. Henry Hansson, and Viktor S:son Wångfeldt) and two members of the magistracy (Chief Magistrate Bernhard Lindberg and Mayor Ernst Frick, replaced later by Ivan Nyborg). The professional adviser to the committee was the city’s real-​estate and finance-​department architect, Gerdt Stendahl.65 The administrative structure for oversight of the building was essentially an inverted pyramid, with Asplund reporting to the building committee, the committee reporting to the real-​estate office, which reported to the city building commission (Byggnadsnämden)—​a group consisting 58

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of city-​employed architects, outside architectural experts, and city councilors—​which then, finally, reported to the city council itself. On 19 October 1934 the building committee met with Asplund, who shortly thereafter signed a contract. His thinking on the project can be traced relatively closely from that point until a few months before his death in 1940. It was a disputatious process—​much too rushed for the architect’s taste—​with Asplund’s designs often meeting a critical reaction from the committee and, ultimately, from the public, when the scaffolding was taken down from the main façade in October 1936. To meet government deadlines, the design phase moved quickly—​at least initially. Asplund promised completed drawings by May 1935 and contract documents by 1 July. The timetable set by the government—​building work had to be started by February 1935 in order to qualify for the state loans—​dominated discussions in the early part of the process, and the committee put Asplund on a short lead.66 Asplund’s uncertainty is revealed in a letter to the building committee, dated 17 December 1934, that touches on the problems of relating old and new.67 Asplund submitted drawings on 20 December 1934. The façade toward the square presented special problems, and the design he sent (fig. 42) was more or less a placeholder for a modern building he was developing inside.68 Åke Porne (1905–2007), a student and collaborator, has described Asplund’s early uncertainty about the façade: “We talked a lot about it at the office. What were you to do with an old building with a centralized façade and something to be added? How, basically, should you treat it? Should you continue with what was already in the façade—​moldings, fronts, pilaster divisions—​ or should you do something new, alluding to

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Figure 42 Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, proposed façade, 1934. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-15.

the old part?” When Porne and his colleagues proposed doing “something new with consideration for the old part,” Asplund was doubtful: “No, here we’ll have to stick to the inside. Our contribution here will be the inside.” As a good modernist, Porne recalls being puzzled by this answer “because we thought that the outside and the inside were interdependent.”69 Another of Asplund’s assistants from this period, Helge Zimdahl (1903–2001), recalls Asplund’s perception of some of the problems with the clients in Gothenburg: “They had had trouble with the City Theatre designed by (Carl) Bergsten.”70 So it was not just Asplund’s own experience in Gothenburg that weighed on him or his own meticulous attempts to arrive at the perfect formal solution, but recent history with the city theater at Götaplatsen.

For the Gothenburg Jubilee Exhibition of 1923, only the art museum at the head of Götaplatsen (and what became the nearby konsthall just to the west) had been completed. In 1927, after lengthy debate, the city had finally moved to add a theater and a concert hall in order to complete the project, but progress had been far from smooth. Carl Bergsten, the architect selected for the city theater, had been caught between the building committee and the public, and his designs ridiculed in the press. Early designs had been rejected, and changes provoked further acrimonious debate (fig. 43).71 Bergsten submitted additional changes in February 1928 that proved equally divisive. Despite two favorable and typically well-​considered articles by the venerable critic and editor Edvard Alkman A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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(1867–1937), Göteborgs-​posten thought his project had “the character of a circus with the fountain in the middle.”72 Göteborgs morgonpost was equally doubtful, particularly concerning the exteriors: they thought the northern façade, toward Berzeliusgatan, looked like a barn and the main façade was painful. Echoing Göteborgs-​posten’s description of the main section as like a “circus,” the writer wondered if this was precisely the intention.73 In an editorial the paper damned Bergsten’s design with faint praise, claiming that the real problem (as many actually thought) was Götaplatsen itself.74 New designs followed. In 1929 Bergsten offered a highly decorated antique pile—​ sharply criticized by Sigfrid Ericson before the committee—​which Bergsten subsequently changed to one based on a Roman scaenae frons (1930), finally gaining approval in 1931 with a design based loosely on the Palazzo dei Priori in Perugia, with paired ionic columns and piers fronting a smaller loggia on the piano nobile (fig. 44).75 The new design eliminated much of the relief sculpture that had, in the opinion of some, given the building the appearance of a “temporary place of entertainment of the sort found in an amusement park like a tivoli.”76 Even so, Axel Romdahl, whose opinion on all artistic matters was invariably sought and quoted, critiqued this design as lacking confidence. Writing in Handelstidningen, Romdahl observed, “The façade is contemporary, which is to say that it expresses the impotence of our time with respect to the tasks of the monumental. It totters between a lack of tradition and traditionalism, between façade architecture and interior decoration, between luxury and austerity, between the timeless and the temporary.”77 Bergsten was forced into yet further changes (fig. 45).78

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Figure 43 (opposite top) Carl Bergsten, Gothenburg City Theater, proposal, 1927. Regionoch stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A15005. Figure 44 (opposite bottom) Carl Bergsten, Gothenburg City Theater, proposal, 1930. Regionoch stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, A14961. Figure 45 Carl Bergsten, Gothenburg City Theater, completed 1934, view from the west with Götaplatsen and the statue of Poseidon by Carl Milles to the right. Carl Alfred Träff, Gothenburg.

No doubt these events had unsettled Asplund, and one strand of the courthouse-​ project discussion hereafter, raised in the letter of 17 December cited above, contains echoes from the debates around Götaplatsen. Asplund’s drawings from this period attempt to stress the scale of the building, evident in their linking together of the old and the new to make one façade and their employment of a traditional classical vocabulary in the extension like that of its neighbor. So while Asplund started the development of the interior in a more modern style, linking old and new together in the courtyard, he maintained the traditional character of the façade. But this anxiety, this reluctance to distinguish the new extension facing Gustaf Adolf square from the older courthouse building, was not satisfactory to the building committee (and perhaps not even to

Asplund himself ). They asked for a new façade design. But what to propose? Asplund presented conceptual drawings early in February 1935—​ probably without the façade.79 As demolition work began on the old Governor’s House, the architect Gerdt Stendahl wrote on 20 February 1935 to ask for new façade drawings, and though the other elements of the plan had already been approved, Asplund still delayed completion of the façade design.80 On 9 March 1935 the committee requested that final drawings be delivered by 19 March, and Lindberg wrote directly to Asplund explaining the sensitivity of committee members and the city council over this matter.81 Asplund sent in some drawings, but even so, as a report of a meeting before the city building commission attests (a meeting attended by the architects Ernst Torulf and

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Figure 46 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, 24 May and 6 July 1935. At this point the façade is still in travertine sheets, and the windows are centered in their bays. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-18. Figure 47  (opposite top) Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, spring–​summer 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-984. Figure 48  (opposite bottom) Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, spring–​summer 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 198802-986 HE.

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Asplund’s former assistant Nils Einar Eriksson), none of the proposals was approved, so that when the building committee met on 27 March they “found none of the façade sketches in question to be of such character that they could win the committee’s approval.”82 What did they see? We do not know; there is no drawing securely dated from this period that tells us Asplund’s intentions.83 He was probably still working with a relatively traditional design. In the office, however, Asplund’s assistants were preparing new drawings. According to Nils Rissén (1906–1994), who confuses the dates and some of the details, each of the assistants had a task: “One of us had to design a façade like a functionalist building—​modern design in other words. Tore Ahlsén (1906–1991) was given that job. I had to do a building roughly like the one already existing. And Åke Porne was given a similar task to mine, but with a slightly different touch to the actual architecture. It was to be pillared architecture with pilasters and suchlike

for the façade.” Rissén reports that Asplund selected Ahlsén’s design and that this “was the façade as it looks today.”84 The next securely dated indication of the state of the façade comes only in May, when the building committee “agreed to approve the proposal in principle,” with the reservation that Asplund enlarge the smaller windows at the attic level (fig. 46).85 This state must reflect the work of Tore Ahlsén. This modern façade (with its grid of pilaster strips, four-​part frieze, hip roof, three-​light windows, and travertine sheet façade) presents a fixed point around which to organize Asplund’s many preceding studies. Pressed to combine old and new, the office worked overtime developing one of the most fascinating series: sketch after sketch varying only slightly one from the other. One study shows an alternative façade with balconies and a slightly different proportioning system that lifts the windows higher within each bay and sets the building on a higher base, creating a slightly

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more monumental effect (figs. 47 and 48).86 On 18 July 1935, Handelstidningen reported under the headline “New Courthouse Drawings Completed” that in the extension “reverence and consideration for the older style have worked hand in hand with the imperative for modernity and a practical aim.” As the journalist wrote, “Plainly it is difficult to make a firm judgment about how the façade experiment will turn out in reality. The result depends to a degree on the materials and the treatment of the surface. The color of the two façades will be the old yellow tone that can well contribute to fuse their different characters. In any case, the old courthouse will maintain its control over the neighborhood and become, with its renovated appearance, a worthier creation than before.”87 The building committee received drawings in May and August 1935 and approved them subject to revisions, only received in December, when Asplund offered further changes.88 Over the summer Asplund must have exchanged travertine for plaster and possibly introduced other changes (for example, upper-​level windows). These changes were approved at the meeting of the building committee in December 1935. In a promemoria dated 11 January 1936, Gerdt Stendhal expressed his skepticism about some of these changes, in particular their effect on the small upper-​level windows: “Considering the whole of the new proposal, which seems to me to have a certain value and distinguished character, it must be recommended before the old one. Equally, . . . I must pose some doubt about the appearance of the upper levels of the façade, the attic story, particularly considering whether the appearance from Gustaf Adolf square is the best solution.”89 Nonetheless, on 13 January 1936 the building committee approved these new drawings, though, as they reported later, they

believed that according to their mandate they could not reject the façade designs on purely aesthetic grounds.90 When exactly he introduced the most radical step of all, shifting the windows to the left within their frames, is not known. There are no dates for sheets like the one shown in figure 49, though the building A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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committee at a puzzling meeting in March 1936 again approved façade drawings, and that new meeting suggests that they needed to approve something significant (not mentioned by Samuelsson in January)—​perhaps the shifted axes.91 They kept a photographic record as proof, and in April these drawings must then have been sent to the city building commission, where they were also approved. (By that date it was probably too late to alter anything even had they objected.) In substance, this was the façade that was progressively unveiled in the third week of October 1936.

Figure 49 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, façade proposal, winter 1936(?). Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1032 HE.

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was the only part of the building of interest to Asplund. This was, of course, not the case, even if the other exterior walls and the interior seem not to have provoked similar discussion. The surviving drawings are certainly fewer. Many of the issues around the numbers of courtrooms and their locations had already been resolved ten years earlier: on the first floor Asplund placed offices, with one courtroom at the west side; on the second floor he arranged four courtrooms and waiting areas; on the third- and fourth-​floor levels were more offices and a café. Decisions about the other façades, not unnaturally, seem to have followed the lead of the façade facing the square. The Köpmansgatan flank and the rear façade, facing Kristine Church, lacked the contextual responsibility of the main façade, on Gustaf Adolf square, and called for little of the same meditation. Asplund’s final adjustments to the main façade in December then determined the bay sequences of the other two exterior façades. In the courtyard, as already noted, Asplund opened the space between courtyard and main hall, exposing the main stair along the east-​ west axis of the building. In the designs of 1925 the fourth side of the courtyard, that facing the extension, is relatively closed. In the designs submitted in December 1934 the wall has been opened, with piers visible on the plan. Perhaps the study sketch in figure 50 shows what he had in mind. By the summer of the following year (July 1935) the hall had been fully opened, exposing the interior behind a two-​story window wall. Asplund made the stair the subject of special study, visualizing it from different points from within and without the hall (fig. 51). On the interior, two issues presented special problems for Asplund as he modernized his earlier designs. The first problem was the

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internal expression of structure. In the proposals from the teens and twenties Asplund had employed classical columns, piers, and pilasters and organized the spaces in a Beaux-​Arts manner: rectangular volumes in a rectangular frame with the structure hidden within the wall. In the plans drawn up in 1925, for example, Asplund arranged a pair of courtrooms next to a semirotunda with apsidal projections. The rooms balance one another across a pair of small splayed private conference rooms (fig. 52). Neither conference rooms nor courtrooms are expressed in the hall, and vertical support for the rotunda is unconnected to room function. A decade later, under the impact of his ideas on modernism, he began to expose the structure, giving the building its most significant modernist character. The first element to be exposed was the staircase. In December 1934 Asplund still employed traditional round columns on the interior and placed the elevator in the corner toward the façade, but in the following year he changed the supports from traditional columns to I-beam pilotis rendered with concrete. In a letter of 20 November 1935, Asplund explained to John Eliasson, the contractor’s on-​site job captain, how to make the piers function as water conduits.

Figure 50 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view across the courtyard to the glass wall of the new building, late 1934. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-878. Figure 51 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view from the inside to the south, toward the original courtyard, showing the staircase from the first floor to the second, summer 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1086 HE.

The contractor will perform a test on both recasting and rendering the columns, which are to have an I-​shaped contour. I am therefore sending drawings of these test columns. The test should be performed immediately and in a place where a pipe can be coupled to [the column] from the nearby furnace so that hot water can circulate through it as [part of the] test. Perhaps you will set up the drawing for different column types, showing the pipes that are available. A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 52 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, proposed plan, September 1925. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-04-10.

Naturally the contractor should not undertake to make form work for the columns before we can show that they can pass the test.92 This experiment highlights a question about which Asplund thought hard over the summer of 1935. Should the piers be exposed? And should they do more than just hold up the building? In one drawing, dated 26 June 1935, he expressed the structural piers on the exterior of the courtroom envelopes in a constructivist manner (fig. 53). In a drawing dated 24 May but revised on 6 July 1935, the columns 66

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on the south side have been sunk into the wall. Neither drawing precisely records the building as built, but the drawings do record the matters about which Asplund clearly fretted, deciding in the end to avoid the spikier articulation in favor of a smoother expression of the wall. Even so, he left the stairs and elevator reduced to their structural supports and placed them next to one another near the entrance. Thus Asplund formulated his aesthetic as a smooth wood-​paneled interior wall surface with the stairs and elevator standing out as abstract sculpture. Interestingly, no sheets appear to work out these details of the covered

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Figure 53 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, proposed plan, dated 26 June 1935. Region- och stadsarkivet, Gothenburg, Byggnadsnämnden, Byggnadsavdelningen, Bygglovsritning Nordstaden 11:7 ritning nr. 32509 13, 1935.

wall. It was, however, a momentous decision, as the building became less earthbound and more seaworthy: smooth flowing walls give the interiors the quality of Art Deco, recalling the character of the M/S Kungsholm (1928), one of the most popular Swedish Line oceangoing passenger ships. There, in the second-​class public rooms, Carl Bergsten employed a simple exposed wood for walls and ceilings. Asplund may also have noted the curved interior of Nils Einar Eriksson’s concert hall (inaugurated 4 October 1935) and other popular contemporary buildings with Art Deco–like profiles in Gothenburg: R. O. Swensson’s G.-​P. Building

on Polhemsplatsen (1933–35), the men’s clothing store Ströms by the Danish architect Ove Gormsen (1935) on Kungsgatan, and F. O. Peterson and Wilhelm Mattson’s Skeppsbrohuset (1935). Most critically, Asplund returned to the study of the individual and his relation to objects and space. At the front of each courtroom he placed a horseshoe-​shaped table for the judges and lay advisers (reached by a narrow corridor); the public (or family members) filled the rows of fixed chairs at the rear of the room. Each of the courtrooms was slightly different from the others, and Asplund A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 54 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for a courtroom, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1392 HE. Figure 55 Gunnar Asplund, proposal for a Bible stand, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1498 HE.

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provided drawings and took advice from the judges themselves.93 Studies show the architect’s imagining the rooms as seen from the point of view of the judge and the advisers, without furniture and with furniture and visitors (fig. 54). Other sketches show experimentation with the placement of clocks, curtains, and lighting. Numerous sketches of the Bible stand are a further part of this investigation: sketches ultimately show the stand integrated into the desk to balance the judge’s own writing table or on its own base but adjoining the judge and advisers’ table (fig. 55).94 The selection of a Bible stand integrated into the judge’s desk ultimately became a critical part of the design. The intention to rely more on oral than on written procedure in the courts might have been expected to have an influence on the design of the courtrooms, but Asplund (and others) concluded that the changes would probably not make a significant difference. Nonetheless, he studied what sorts of chairs would be appropriate for judges, advisers, and the visiting public.95 The simplest and most moving design is for the table for the accused, its chair picked out in color, the table itself only partly drawn in (fig. 56). This may be the study described by Carl-​Axel Acking that illustrated Asplund’s “profound human interest in . . . the environment he was commissioned to design.” Acking cites an article Asplund had been given by the building committee that specified a design for a “dock”: After we had been working on this for some time, it suddenly struck Asplund one day that we were accepting a kind of penalization of somebody who had not yet been convicted. Why should anybody be subjected to the negative discrimination of sitting on an uncomfortable bench with no

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back while everybody else in the room had chairs of normal design? No, of course not. The accused should enjoy the same comfort as everybody else sitting in the courtroom. After all, he might be acquitted.96 Though newspapers later lampooned Asplund for this design, his engagement with court protocol was much more than superficial and reflected contemporary concerns among the public and in the judiciary over the rights due to those accused of crimes.97 In a letter to Ivan Nyborg, newly appointed chief magistrate, Asplund reported on a visit to Stockholm’s courthouse, where he found all the advisers sitting at the same height—​and general satisfaction with the arrangement. He presented alternatives to the judge and offered to place the judge “at eye level in relation to the prosecutor and at a higher level [in relation] to the judicial advisers, as I understood was the magistrate’s wish.” Asplund offered alternatives, however: “alternative 2 [fig. 57] shows a solution without raising the eye level, with the eye height at 1.58 m over the floor level and with the chair 5 cm higher than the advisers’. The speaker’s chair would also be taller, with a more richly decorated back. That system seems to me in all respects to be better.”98 In the end Asplund raised the advisers’ desks. Many of the issues around furniture came down to cost.99 In the renovation of the rooms in the old courthouse as the extension reached completion in 1937, Asplund accepted the arguments of Lindberg, keen not to have “new-​style” furniture interfere with the character of the rooms in Tessin’s building (fig. 58). Providing lighting, both natural and artificial, was also a critical part of Asplund’s design, and among the most detailed studies are those

Figure 56 Gunnar Asplund, design for the chair and table for the accused, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1998-02-1637 HE, recto. Figure 57 Gunnar Asplund, alternative study for the height of the judge’s platform, 1935. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1998-02-2363.

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of light and light fixtures. During brighter days the overhead industrial-​style skylight was to be the primary light source in the main hall, and studies show that it changed size and orientation. Asplund developed four types of electrical fixtures: paired lights in the form of scales of justice (each “balance” with three bulbs), a light with a single “scale,” a single cone-​shaped light to project upward, and finally a double-​shell light. Each had a specific role. The single cones hung in a track under the first-​floor balcony, pointing upward and providing reflected light for the ceiling. Elsewhere they were used for specific tasks, such as illuminating the notice boards. The paired fixtures, properly speaking electrified scales of justice, still hang on either side of the piers that run alongside the main stairs. These provide both general lighting for the hall and specific task lighting. To meet the needs of seated visitors who wanted to bring the light closer, Asplund made the height of the

Figure 58 Gunnar Asplund, interior decoration in the chief magistrate’s chamber in the old courthouse, where the old and new met, 1936–37. The chief magistrate pleaded with Asplund to leave the old room in its original form. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1962-101-1430.

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lights adjustable. The single lights—​simplified versions of these “scales of justice”—​also appeared in some of the waiting areas. The fourth type of light fixture, which Asplund developed for the interiors of the courtrooms, has a peculiar organic shape: the lower bulb set within a cup and behind opal glass, the upper bulb protected by foil (figs. 59 and 91). This fixture provided a double-​diffused light that is reflected up from below and down and out from the upper shade. Asplund’s commentary on these fixtures does not help explain their form or his intentions fully: their aim is to give the room another form of daylight, what he called “the necessary, weak, shadowless sidelight.”100 His lighting was intended to show the world as it was; Asplund sought artificial means to duplicate natural effects. He also managed to create a rich light-​based symbolism, not just through the scales of justice but through the designs for lights in the courtrooms. They seem to resemble bivalves, European oysters, or flowers with a large circular sunlike corona above and a smaller cup below—​even orchids hinged between lip and petal. The lamps, like sunflowers or water lilies, sit at the end of electrical “stems” and are ultimately attached to the side of the courtroom walls. The courthouse was a place of everyday light, of the flowers of the field or seagoing plants. Asplund and the members of his office designed all furnishings within the building: the telephone kiosks, the notice boards, the water fountains, and the chairs. For the most distinctive easy chairs, those in the southern section of the hall facing the double-​height window, Asplund sought materials and design that would be light in both weight and tone. He used bentwood, leaving the chairs as skeletal presences, ghost-​chair outlines rather than solid objects. These are, in effect, only brief

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resting places for those who are waiting during a pause in a trial or for a trial to begin, chairs that create transitional sitting places rather than permanent installations (fig. 60). The elevator shaft, telephone kiosks, and notice boards use a similar skeletal construction, employing hollow white-​enamel steel rods and silver links along with glass. Asplund seems to have had a relatively free hand in the design of these elements, and the documentary record reflects no discussion of them, at least that I can find, except from the point of view of cost. For the water fountains placed on first and second floors, early drawings show each as a simple bowl on a metal stem. Ultimately the fountains developed into a deep crystal basin of a size to fit a person’s head. On the first and second floors they invited the passing visitor to stop for a moment and be refreshed. Façade Sculpture One critical part of the façade design, however, was never completed to Asplund’s specifications.101 As Asplund developed his designs, he came to feel the need to complete it with sculpture to strengthen the link between old and new, and a number of proposals show sculpture in place. The designs seem to date from the time of the shift in the window axes, the fall of 1935, and they appear to be trials rather than efforts to fit a specific sculpture in place (fig. 61). In some ways this was an unexpected desire on Asplund’s part.102 Although sculpture was an essential part of the iconography of most courthouses, it had played no significant part of Asplund’s Gothenburg Courthouse designs up to and including those of 1925, and in the 1930s sculpture and modern architecture had an uneasy relationship, partly because of critical comments in acceptera. In a dialogue at the end of the chapter “The Old and the New,”

a man named Mr. Traditionalist asks about the role of art in modern architecture, to which the modernist replies in bold: “Free, autonomous, living works of art instead of dainty, worthless decorations, instead of ‘tastefulness.’ ”103 As Asplund now contemplated the need for sculpture in the courthouse extension, he probably also had in mind the debate, prompted by A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 59 Gunnar Asplund, study for courtroom lighting, showing changes in design between 1937 and 1938. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-2242.

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Figure 60 Gunnar Asplund, designs for a wicker chair, July–August 1936. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-1834.

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an article entitled “The Architects and the Arts” by the painter and sculptor Sven X:et Erixson in the journal Fönstret, that chided architects for selecting impersonal and mediocre artists.104 Perhaps that too was on the building committee’s mind when in March 1936 they announced

a closed sculptural competition for a well-​ known group of five sculptors: Carl Berger, Stig Blomberg (1901–1970), Erik Grate (1896–1983), Ivar Johnsson (1885–1970), and Tore Strindberg (1882–1968). The terms specified that the sculpture be made of stone and placed on a gray-​speckled granite socle on the southern corner of the façade facing Gustaf Adolf square. Detached from the façade itself, the program defined the work as in low relief and made to be seen only from the front. Its price was set at 30,000 kronor. Its program was a striking retreat from the traditions of courthouse iconography: “As a ‘theme’ for the sculpture the committee has no instructions. It is important that the sculpture be a good work of art with a universal serious theme. Complicated and hardto-​understand symbolism should be avoided in all cases. A figure of Justice is already found on the old courthouse façade.”105 The committee asked for their proposals by 15 May, and six days later a subcommittee of Asplund, Chief Magistrate Lindberg, and the sculptor John Lundqvist (1882–1972) reported their verdict. One proposal had all but been excluded immediately: that of Strindberg had been imperfectly packed and partially destroyed in shipping. Of the others—​Berger’s for The Law, Blomberg’s for Fate’s Three Goddesses, Grate’s for Male and Female Figures, and Johnsson’s for The Guilty and the Good—​the jury favored Johnsson’s proposal, “for its successful design as well as its universal and light presentation of the concept” (fig. 62). Johnsson himself described the theme as “a sighted Justitia without a sword.”106 Johnsson had worked with Asplund before, notably at the Karl Johan School, Asplund’s other Gothenburg building.107 Money was the problem. The building committee forwarded the request to the one agency in Gothenburg they thought able to fund the sculpture (and façade

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Figure 61 Gunnar Asplund, design for the façade of the Gothenburg Courthouse extension, with sculpture set in place at the lower corner, 1936–37. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-02-993.

lighting to illuminate it at night): the Lindberg Foundation.108 The addition of the sculpture to the courthouse would, the committee wrote, “enrich the image of the city’s most important public space, making it more attractive.”109 It seemed, on the face of it, a reasonable request. Established in 1909, the Lindberg Foundation had as its mission to beautify the appearance of the city—​they had been behind the project to transform Gustaf Adolf square—​ and to do that they typically underwrote the installation of public sculpture. Among their commissions were the Poseidon of Carl Milles at Götaplatsen (1927–31), a Tore Strindberg fountain in Järntorget (1927), and the bronze flagpoles added by Swensson and Chronander to Gustaf Adolf square (1932). Unfortunately, this last commission had initially been Asplund’s, but his designs had been returned

for revisions. Possibly absorbed with the Stockholm Public Library, he does not even seem to have replied to their questions.110 Moreover, the chairman of the Lindberg Foundation committee was now Axel Romdahl. Trained as an art historian, his standing as the city’s unofficial spokesman on aesthetic issues, despite the jibes in 1916, had only increased. Now director of the art museum and professor at Göteborgs högskola (later the university), Romdahl had, in a text whose title played on Asplund’s (and his fellow modernists’) own architectural treatise, already identified the Tessin tradition as true Swedish architecture and had pronounced himself publicly an opponent of the passive acceptance of modernity.111 “Reagera” (React) accused the authors of acceptera of abandoning Swedish traditions for “the Continental and the American ways of life,” and he counseled A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 62 Ivar Johnsson, The Guilty and the Good, 1936. This was the winning entry, now lost, in the competition to provide façade sculpture for the courthouse extension. From Dagens nyheter, 4 November 1936, p. 1.

against becoming so besotted with technology “that one awards it the authority to be an end in itself so that one does not dare to object to the awkward consequences it has brought about.”112 For Romdahl, modernity had brought 74

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about the debasement of art (through the gramophone and talking film), and he urged a broader cultural orientation including nature and handicraft. Romdahl loved Gustaf Adolf square. In 1923, as part of the celebrations for the jubilee, he had written an appreciation of Gothenburg and the old architecture of the square. “Around seven o’clock the square lies so quiet and abandoned, like a small town square around midnight, and the hero-​king misses the audience while he demonstrates with his bronze finger the site of the new city.” Preserve this square from “truck traffic and noise,” he wrote, “so that the mayor and council can sit undisturbed when they pursue justice, and we citizens can be reminded that our city was not built yesterday.”113 Romdahl had been disappointed with Asplund’s building when the façade had been unveiled, and the answer to the building commission’s request came quickly: the Lindberg Foundation turned down funding for the courthouse sculptural program, considering the addition of insufficient significance for the “image of the city.”114 Moreover, in a judgment that permanently frustrated Asplund’s intentions, they “considered that the proposal was not in appropriate harmony with the building’s architecture” and rejected the request yet again when asked for money a year later.115 For Asplund, the decision undercut his efforts to tie the old and the new together. Urging renewed action on behalf of the sculptural program, he wrote to the building committee: Concerning Ivar Johnsson’s sculpture the jury’s citation should be quoted. It should be emphasized that the sculpture’s “double column” seems to fit the site perfectly and ties the new façade to the old portico colonnade. It should also be said that the sculpture should not be considered a realistic

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Figure 63 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, modern collage reflecting what Asplund published in 1939 as the design “approved by the committee in 1937.” From Göteborgs rådhus: Om- och tillbyggnad 1935–1937; Berättelse avgiven av Rådhusbyggnadskommittén år 1938 (Gothenburg: Oscar Isacson), 47. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-072; collaged with Ivar Johnsson’s competition entry from Dagens nyheter, 4 November 1936, p. 1.

interpretation of what takes place inside the courthouse but rather an oppositional introduction to human benevolence. Concerning these matters the architect has emphasized that “just as the devil is represented in the imagery of our old churches, so can the symbol of benevolence take its place in front of the courthouse.”116 The sculpture, approximately one meter high, would have provided some depth to the new façade, echoing the older façade (as Asplund pointed out to the newspapers) and providing a human reference point to the modernized grid (fig. 63).117 Using the sculpture to humanize the abstract modern building was a further way to interlace old and new, and Asplund agitated unsuccessfully for sculpture through 1938.118

In early October 1936, just before the removal of the scaffolding, the building committee addressed two issues. Asplund also wanted exterior lighting for the new façade, and he apparently designed decorative fixtures to be set across both buildings to provide further continuity.119 He also explored other strategies to make sculpture available, given the inability, so far, to raise money. In a letter to the new chief magistrate Ivan Nyborg dated 9 October, Asplund proposed the installation of reduced-​scale versions of the sculptures that could be used inside.120 On the same day he also proposed to Bernhard Lindberg, the retiring magistrate, a series of glass reliefs on Gothenburg themes for the windows in the second story: “The representation should be more humane than a stiff symbol and A sp l und’s Mult ip l e V isions, 19 13 – 193 7

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Figure 64 Erik Grate, models for the reliefs to be inserted in the windows, 1937. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-105.

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furthermore be so large and simply formed as to be comprehensible from the square.”121 Asplund approached the sculptor Erik Grate in March 1937 about the possibility of creating the windows, which would also bring light into the first-​floor courtroom, and he took up the issue directly with the building committee in June, though still hoping for the larger-​scale façade sculpture. In a letter of June 1937 he continued to underline the need to enliven the façade through sculpture and lighting: “when the question of lighting this side of the square came under discussion, I proposed that there should be some relief to the façade, that the lighting should be arranged in the form of decorative chandeliers on the new as well as on the old façade.”122 Asplund feared that neither of the sculptural programs nor the chandeliers would be installed, and he spelled out the only two possible alternatives for the completion of the façade: (1) “glass reliefs and the decorative chandeliers”; (2) “glass reliefs and the sculpture by Ivar Johnsson.” He suggested that private funding be sought to fulfill this part of the commission.123 The building committee again approached the Lindberg Foundation, only to receive the judgment they had received earlier and an admonishment to wait until 1939, when the foundation would again be receiving applications.124 And they turned directly to the city council in August, asking for money to pay for sculpture: “the ornamentation,” they

wrote, “is required so that the courthouse building [including the extension] shall take on the character of a monumental building, as was the architect’s intention and as is certainly desirable. The architect has particularly pointed out . . . that not just pilasters and windows but all the façade’s compositional elements must be executed for the intended rhythm and effect to be reached.”125 Not without some criticism of the proposal, the city council voted 29 to 26 to supply 25,000 kronor for the window sculpture.126 Grate was open to the possibilities of stone; Asplund tended to favor glass, comparable in size and effect to the windows in the Sturehof restaurant in Stockholm (near his office), as he wrote to the building committee in March 1938. The sculptor prepared mock-​ups in the summer of 1938 (fig. 64).127 But as time dragged on, Asplund feared that Gothenburg had lost interest in the work, though attempts had been made to reach Grate, but without success, as Bernhard Lindberg protested on 10 November 1939.128 Grate replied finally (14 December 1939) that due to the war he had been unable to travel to France to oversee production of the glass sheets, and two months before his death, Asplund accepted the idea of stone for the reliefs.129 Asplund also directed the repair and repainting of three sides of the courtyard between the old courthouse and the new extension that allowed their colors to match. In the center he proposed a

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new fountain, but there was no money for its completion, and at the meeting of 8 June 1936, the committee asked the museum to loan the bronze elements that would enable them to construct a fountain there.130 Photographs show the courtyard in this rather bare state—​ with a small spray of water from the pool in the northeast corner of the courtyard. Some freestanding sculpture was ultimately provided for the courthouse in 1939 with the installation of a figure of a seated girl by the Danish sculptor Gerhard Henning (1880–1967). The sculpture had been exhibited in Gothenburg over the summer, and one of the judges thought it would be appropriate for the courthouse extension and proposed its placement in the courtyard. Though not in a location Asplund had planned (and he seems to have had nothing to do with its selection or placement), the newspapers were kindly disposed toward it. Writing in Handelstidningen, Birger Beckman thought she looked “right at home” (fig. 65). Indeed, from the commentary one might imagine that the writer had read the original competition brief: “What should one say about a work of sculpture that only represents a naked young woman in the courtyard of a courthouse? Yes, it is really an advantage that she doesn’t represent anything in particular, like a rather artful figure of Justice, for example. She symbolizes nothing other than what she is: youthful, healthy, full-​blooded, and human. But isn’t that the most beautiful and most sensible image that one can have in a solemn old courthouse?”131 As war broke out in Europe, a sculpture symbolizing innocence and beauty provided a critical mediation between audience and building, confirming Asplund’s vision for the building as a whole.

Figure 65 Gerhard Henning, Naked Girl, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 1939.

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Asplund’s Building and Modern Law

Chap ter 3

w

Asplund’s European Context In addressing the problem of the town hall in 1935, the English professor of architecture Charles Reilly wrote about his visit to Nizhnii Novgorod in Russia to inspect Alexander Z. Grinberg’s functionalist House of the Soviets, completed in 1932 (fig. 66). “There it stands,” he wrote, “truthful to the obvious facts of its programme, naked and unashamed. Does it thrill one? Does it touch the imagination? Personally, I cannot say it does in any deep sense. I feel it is a fitting temporary home for a young and serious government free from graft but not a permanent building expressing the historical importance and dignity of the town. It is clean and straightforward, but that is all.” If one could be content with a temporary town hall, he concluded, “this is exactly the sort of honest structure we should put up.”1 Seeking to find a way to modernize the town hall or the courthouse, Reilly had stumbled on the most modern functionalist solution to the problem, knowing full well that everything militated against it as the kind of structure that could be erected anywhere in western Europe. What were Asplund’s alternatives as he thought about the task he had been handed in 1934: how could he design a modern courthouse for Gothenburg? In reality the solutions were few. The work of three architects stood out: Willem Dudok (1884–1974), Le Corbusier (1887–1965), and

Tony Garnier (1869–1948). Each in different ways had addressed problems that would have interested Asplund as he set to the task. With his town hall in Hilversum (1928–31), Dudok had opened the path for the modern municipal structure (fig. 67). It used a number of traditional motifs (the tower, the moat and water display, the grand scale) that typically identified the town hall, and yet none of these motifs, as designed by Dudok, was wholly familiar. Abstract, streamlined, and grand in scale, it spoke to Hilversum’s image as a modern industrial town (the home of Radio Netherlands) and still managed to be legible as a public structure.2 It became the model for modern municipal buildings throughout Europe. In France the architects Joannès Chollet, Jean-​Baptiste Mathon, and René Chaussat built a new town hall for the Paris suburb of Cachan (1933–36), notably indebted to “notre confrère Dudock [sic].”3 In Great Britain, Reginald Uren’s Hornsey Town Hall (1933–35) and Culpin & Son’s Greenwich Town Hall (1935–39) both show the influence of Dudok.4 Even in Sweden and Italy there were supporters.5 Dudok’s exterior opened the possibility of new forms for civic buildings, and in its interiors spoke boldly of the virtues of light. Additionally, Dudok was a radical when it came to the connection between old and new. Hilversum had the advantage of a rural site, but in his

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entry for an addition to the city hall in Leiden (1930), Dudok revealed his aversion to compromise with historical context. Earlier buildings, he noted, should not “interfere with a beautiful and modern project,” because “it would be difficult to justify the construction of something whose negative consequences our descendants would have to support for hundreds of years, simply through a misguided sense of respect for architectural beauty.”6 He rejected compromise: “I have not tried to adapt the architectural level of the town hall to the old façade. In fact, the new construction belongs to our time, as the old renaissance façade belongs to its time. . . . The old façade is embedded in the new building like an old stone in a new ring.”7 Dudok’s building and his approach to municipal modernity were convincing demonstrations of coming change. More critical for Asplund was the sometimes-​explosive debate around modernism and public architecture that took place with the competition for the League of Nations Building in Geneva (1927). Though strictly speaking not a state building, the League of Nations had the programmatic needs and the political ambitions of a parliament. Most of the entries offered conventional historicizing solutions, and ultimately the traditional entry of Henri-​Paul Nénot with Julien Flegenheimer, Camille Lefèvre, Carlo Broggi, and Joseph Vago, described by Sigfried Giedion as “an enormous tombstone,” was awarded the commission.8 Some, of course, had not proposed historicizing solutions. There was a Dudok-​ inspired proposal by Jan de Bie Leuveling Tjeenk, for example, and streamlined moderne proposals, too. Hannes Meyer and Hans Wittwer’s functionalist solution rejected “pillared reception halls for weary monarchs . . . [and] brick corridors for backstairs diplomacy,”

offering instead “hygienic workrooms for the busy representatives of the people . . . [and] . . . open glazed rooms for public negotiations of honest men.” But the storm was not over any of these but over the entry of Le Corbusier, an entry that combined a classically inspired plan and conventional stone walls into which he had inserted highly abstract forms and steel-​framed plate glass (fig. 68). Along with modern forms, as the architectural critic Kenneth Frampton has noted, Le Corbusier’s design offered a hierarchical enfilade with elements labeled “peristyle,” “scala regia,” and “salle des pas perdus.”9 Le Corbusier thus seemed to offer one possible route toward the combination of tradition and modernity in public architecture. It was modern in form and materials, traditional in plan and in its modest profile. With the disqualification of Le Corbusier’s entry (on the grounds that it had been printed and not submitted in ink), it was clear that the stakes around modernity and tradition were high in public architecture. The subsequent debate raised issues A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 66 Alexander Z. Grinberg, House of the Soviets, Nizhnii Novgorod, 1929–32.

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Figure 67 Willem Dudok, Hilversum Town Hall, 1928–31.

of the fairness of the competition system and the standing of modern architecture. Sigfried Giedion would later conclude that had Le Corbusier’s entry been built, the “whole development of modern architecture towards a new monumentality would have been advanced for decades.”10 Le Corbusier fanned the debate with lectures, essays, and a book that sought to use his League of Nations entry to advance his theories. Une maison—​un palais, subtitled À la recherche d’une unité architecturale (1929), combined self-​promotion and philosophy with an effort to reframe the issue of monumentality.11 Academic notions of monumentality, he argued, had poisoned the concept of architecture. “Moreover, the palace of the last decades, a product of the academies, has hideously dirtied the meaning of the word. 80

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The palace is no more than the image of scurrilous pretension. The palace was unworthy of any healthy mind, any pure soul. The palace is no more than a stew so gamy that worms are crawling there.”12 Addressing the problem of a consistent style for the times and the need to have principles of architecture that met the needs of both the house and the palace (“a house can always become a palace; it is in the hands of the architect”), he demonstrated how the principles found in a simple fisherman’s cottage on Crete could magically be reframed as monumental. Maximum economy. Maximum intensity. One fine day after suddenly understanding them, one exclaimed, “But these houses are palaces!”

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Figure 68 Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret, photomontage for the League of Nations, Geneva, Switzerland, 1926–1927. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH 1980:1015:325. © 2015 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris / F.L.C.

And we define the palace quite simply: a palace is a house that strikes one with the dignity of its appearance. Dignity is a dominant attitude that comes from a decent place. This attitude is dominant because that which constitutes it is the monumental order. We call monumental that which contains this pure form assembled following a harmonious law.13 The fundamental insight for Asplund here was contained in the equivalence between house and palace. “The palace in Geneva . . . is the house of the nations, the house for the administration of the nations.”14 With the application of his principles Le Corbusier had demystified the problem of public building. Le Corbusier’s League of Nations proposal echoed in

architectural studios as an option, and it must have convinced Asplund that the voice he gave his own retreat from tradition could still carry the amplitude of monumentality. His “palace,” indeed, could be more like a house, modest in scale and in presentation toward the other buildings on the square. Modernity hit the headlines as style—​but Asplund also aspired to express law in a modern way through function, for which there were examples to hand. The notion that functionalist efficiency could contribute to public architecture was also in the air. At Boulogne-​ Billancourt, in the suburbs of Paris, the town’s mayor, André Morizet (1876–1942), had invited the architect Tony Garnier to build a new kind of town hall (1932–34). The goals were clear from the beginning. “We did not want those town halls of the traditional type, where everything is subordinated to A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 69 Tony Garnier and Jacques Debat-​ Ponsan, Boulogne-​Billancourt Hôtel de Ville, 1931–34. Facing the town hall is the post office (Charles Giroud, 1937–38), to the right; at the end of the street is the health center (Roger Hummel, 1938–46). Abeille-​ cartes, 8 rue du Caire, Lyna-​ Paris, Éditions Nozais.

the formal staircase and the festive hall and where the services are tightly housed in dark corners that have been sacrificed to concerns for extravagance.”15 Morizet researched the matter widely and found a model town hall in Schaerbeek, Belgium (1890), by the architect Jules Jacques Ysendyck. There, “in timid and reduced proportions,” he identified a central hall with offices around the side that he could recommend to Garnier. Garnier, for his part, began with the proposal he had made for a city hall in Lyon, which featured a large bell tower centered on the façade. Ultimately jettisoning this tower at Boulogne for reasons of economy (and thus lightening the symbolic load of the building), the subsequent design consisted of two blocks: one marked by vertical mullions containing the main hall surrounded on five stories by offices; the other, plainer still, facing the main road, consisting of the formal 82

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staircase, a reception hall, marriage chambers, and offices for the justice of the peace (fig. 69). Morizet insisted on a building that was “completely naked, that is to say, without the least decoration.” The architectural historian Bruno Foucart has even characterized it, with some small exaggeration, as “Jansenist” in character.16 In the central hall, signs over the wickets directed a visitor easily and efficiently in the right direction (fig. 70). After describing its organization, Marcel Zahar, writing in Art vivant, praised the adaptation of the architecture to the “modern methods of city administration.” He noted further, “The citizens have the impression that the functionaries work under their gaze, almost under their control, in this accounting forum.” Best of all, the building was not a maze; it had no endless corridors, no dark corners where the bureaucrats “look like vampires sitting over their paperwork.”17

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Figure 70 Tony Garnier and Jacques Debat-​ Ponsan, Boulogne-​Billancourt Hôtel de Ville, 1931–34, main hall. Archives municipales de Boulogne-​Billancourt.

The building effectively reversed the traditional relation of citizen to bureaucrat, bringing together traditional municipal functions and offering, in the words of Morizet, “clarity, audacity, and nobility of line” in a building that was, above all, “practical.”18 Nonetheless, there was nothing overtly functionalist (in a modernist sense) about the building, and a review by Charles-​Edouard Sée mixed the language of machine functionalism with human characteristics to describe the building’s virtues: “For the town’s administrators,” he wrote, “it will be an excellent work tool, a machine with supple and well-​balanced members.”19 Morizet described its virtues in religious terms: “The luminous nave [i.e., the central hall] seems to be a cathedral.”20 It was an outdoor space made into an

interior. Garnier’s solution was also brilliant politics. If modern needs were met effectively, a public building need not employ traditional symbols. Properly employed, grand spaces and a renewed focus on the user could compensate for simplified or abstract elements that might otherwise trouble visitors with their novelty. This was a new municipal functionalist monumentality; lacking aesthetic pretension, it suggested a possible way to set up a new relation between citizen and government. There was, of course, every reason for a converted modernist to reach for a modernist solution. At the same time, whatever the local taste in Gothenburg, there was increasing pressure to avoid a historicist solution. Studies of Swedish literature in the 1930s have revealed A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 71 Boris Iofan, perspective drawing for the Palace of the Soviets, Moscow, after 1934. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH 1998:0026:005; gift of Howard Schickler and David Lafaille.

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how anxieties about the rising threat of world war rippled through culture: Mussolini’s declaration of state power (“Everything in the state, nothing outside the state, nothing against the state,” 1926); the expulsions and assassinations at the hand of Stalin (from 1929); the book burnings and the Reichstag fire in Germany (1933); the “black two years” (1933–35) that seemed to presage civil war in Spain.21 Swedes were anxious, feeling weak and defenseless in the event of a new war. But did the parallel rise of statist monumentalism in Russia, Italy, and Germany and its political associations influence Asplund’s architectural strategy, pushing him to scramble the conventional historicist façade he arrived at in mid-1935? Was rejection of the traditional forms of monumentality the source of the ironic shift of window axes on the façade over the summer of 1935, the humorous trick that revealed that Asplund and the Swedes need not take the classical orders entirely seriously? Modern-​day Sweden was, after all, not a claimant for the mantle

of Rome. Russia and Sweden were uneasy neighbors, and Asplund would have had time to contemplate the development of socialist realism under Stalin and visible in successive designs for the Palace of the Soviets (1929–32): bold, tall, grandiose, permanent, symmetrical, and monolithic were the characteristics specified for the entries in the closed competitions (1932–33).22 Buildings needed to be “simple” and “comprehensible” to have maximum effect on Russia’s citizens (fig. 71).23 “We alone are the heirs of Rome,” claimed the architect Aleksei Schusev.24 Sweden’s disquiet about Russia included antipathy to Stalin’s “monumentalism.” Werner Taesler, a German architect who emigrated to Sweden after a period in the Soviet Union, described the situation there for readers of the journal Byggmästaren in 1936. He outlined the architectural ambitions of the government and attempted to explain the new emphasis on “monumentality” and “ensemble,” qualities required for the nature and scale of society’s problems. These, he noted, could be better understood in the context of the socialist street, created not for shopping but for the mass demonstrations and rallies favored by the government.25 These were hardly accommodations Asplund or the Social Democratic government in Sweden favored. Italy was more problematic. Not only did Mussolini’s taste for “monumentality” to express the grandeur of Rome not exclude modern design, but Sweden and Swedish architects (especially Asplund) had a sentimental attachment to the Mediterranean. On 24 April 1924 Mussolini spoke from the Capitoline, urging the liberation of “the mediocre disfigurements of the old Rome” and the creation of “the monumental Rome of the twentieth century.” New streets (long and straight) and new spaces around the ancient monuments

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represented a Haussmannization of the city. Asplund’s proposals for Gothenburg from around that time would not have been wholly out of place. Mussolini also directed the construction of new monumental public buildings around the country (post offices, law courts, town halls, university buildings). Many, most notably in the new towns in the Pontine Marshes, drew on the streamlined character of modernity favored in Sweden and elsewhere in the early 1930s. At the same time, Italian architects battled over the incompatibility of modern architecture and monumentality.26 In September 1935, Mussolini could even claim to be a supporter of functionalism. As he told a group of architects visiting the city, “When I speak of architecture, it is natural that I speak about modern architecture. I would go farther than that. I am speaking about functional architecture.”27 That was true as far as it went, but it was also true, as the critic Carlo Belli wrote in 1931, that “Fascism must give the appearance of Fascism to all Italian building. Now it can never be repeated sufficiently that Fascism is Fascism,” and, he continued, “unity is unity . . . a thing that is not just a thing, but that thing . . . an object, whether it be material or spiritual, can only have its true identity in itself. In short, the Parthenon is not a pipe.”28 This gnomic statement can be read to sustain experimentation (Fascist building need not be classical) but also to affirm that the essence of Fascism is to be distinctive and visible. In its classical form, as in Marcello Piacentini’s Palazzo di Giustizia in Messina (1923–28) or his Palazzo di Giustizia in Milan (1931–41), Asplund would have seen what he wanted to avoid: this was monumentality of the old sort at a new scale (fig. 72). Even so, in its modernized form Fascism could be equally monumental, imperialistic, and celebratory, as revealed in

the competition for the Palazzo del Littorio (1934).29 Perhaps it was this earnest statist architecture that also sent Asplund to seek just “a good work of art” for the façade of his building.30 The situation in Germany was as clamorous as it was in Italy, though for slightly different reasons. For Swedish intellectuals (including architects) raised to regard German culture as superior, the adjustment was difficult. Around 1930, public architecture in Germany looked little different from public architecture elsewhere, with the stirrings of interest in Dudok and streamlined moderne.31 The National Socialists, however, redefined the nature of public building. In 1943, when Hermann Seeger published a collection of recently constructed administration buildings as part of the long-​ running Handbuch der Architektur series, pride of place was given, naturally, to Albert Speer’s New Reich Chancellery building, Berlin (1938). “Public buildings,” wrote Seeger, A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 72 Marcello Piacentini, Palazzo di Giustizia, Milan, 1931–41. Described as “a city in the form of a building,” the palazzo set a model for public architecture elsewhere in Italy. Guido Colombo.

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Figure 73 Courthouse extension building, Leipzig, 1933–36. From Hermann Seeger, Öffentliche Verwaltungsgebäude (Leipzig: J. M. Gebhardt’s Verlag, 1943), 83.

must show an attitude that is consistent with the principles and ideals represented by the state. The entire architectural form must—​free of all playfulness—​impress with the dignity and prestige of national sovereignty. The emblem of the empire may only be incorporated into a building made of durable materials, so that its clear forms are convincing. There is no room for individual artistic interpretations, for stylistic experiments or fashionable shapes. The spirit of the architectural, which arrived at a sensible expression in the ancient world, is still alive.32 The extension to the courthouse in Leipzig (1933–36), linking two older flanking blocks, 86

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demonstrated this direction. The building had already been designed when the Nazis had come to power, so it was not possible to avoid a certain “puritanical ‘objectivity’ ” (puritanischer “Sachlichkeit”), Seeger reported regretfully, but the building still demonstrated, he thought, the proper spirit (fig. 73). Elsewhere, as in the recently built district courts in Duisberg and Küstrin (today Kostrzyn, Poland) and the provincial court in Stettin (all built by the Nazis), traditional architectural styles, classical or National Romantic, predominated.33 In early 1933 an exhibition of German architecture at the Royal Academy in Stockholm had been heavily criticized in the daily press. It included the work of a few modernists (Mies van der Rohe, Clemens Holzmeister, and Robert Vorhölzer), but the central position was occupied by Nazi-​party members or conservative architects such as Adolf Abel, Werner March, and German Bestelmeyer. It opened in Stockholm on 16 January, and the day after, Gotthard Johansson took sharp aim in Svenska dagbladet. The exhibition consisted, he charged, of works that were already out of date before World War I and certainly before the beginnings of functionalism. “Further reflections may be delayed, but so far as this exhibition goes, it is painful to underline the thought that the truly new name in German architecture is—​Hitler.34 (It was a rich architectural month in Stockholm. Le Corbusier arrived ten days later to give two lectures.)35 In Byggmästaren, Hakon Ahlberg attempted to salvage aspects of the exhibition; in its partiality to churches and traditional architecture it did no more than any other exhibition: it excluded some material. Ahlberg echoed Johansson: “What emerges clearly: what novelty has the exhibition shown us? No new buildings, no new architects, but a new name:

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Hitler.”36 Byggmästaren continued to reflect on German affairs. In June 1933 a lengthy article by Gunnar Sundbärg, who had worked at the Stockholm Exhibition with Asplund and Uno Åhrén, on the neutrality of professionals, described the recent conversion of German architectural periodicals such as Baugilde to the National Socialist line and criticized a Swedish publication, Teknisk tidskrift, the former host of the Swedish architectural journal, for its support of the new German government as a “barrier against Bolshevism.”37 Later, in November 1934, Sundbärg reviewed recent German publications, including Paul Schulze-​ Naumburg’s on “time-​bound and blood-​bound art” and Hans Schoszberger’s on “constructive issues related to building techniques for protection against air attack.” No one, least of all Asplund, could have been in any doubt about the direction of German architecture.38 The Building as Built After twenty-​five years of designs and redesigns, the building as built by Asplund is modest, even self-​effacing. It consists of a three-​ story single block with three true exterior faces: a main façade toward Gustaf Adolf square and a secondary façade along Köpmansgatan (figs. 74 and 75); to the rear, toward the Kristine Church and the open lot left by the removal of the school and priest’s residence, is the third face. An interior façade, the fourth, faces the courtyard of Tessin’s old courthouse, as can be seen in the plan (fig. 76). Seen from Gustaf Adolf square, the extension presents no door or primary focus: the building is explicitly an addition to a more venerable structure. Its modest low-​relief façade articulation reflects that point too; it is divided horizontally into stone base, three stories, and an attic that correspond roughly to similar divisions on

Tessin’s Courthouse. A low copper hip roof projects very slightly above the attic story. Stylized pilaster strips divide the façade vertically and correspond to the inner structural skeleton. Below the strips are abstract bases; at the attic level the pilaster strips are narrower and shorter and terminate in abstract capitals. Imposts link the top level to the copper roof. The relation between old and new provides the building’s major architectural theme: modernized pilasters, bases, and capitals. This traditional classical regularity is complicated by an alternate rhythmic repetition in the windows facing the main square. They are not centered on the internal axes of the spaces between the pilasters but set off to the left. And in four of the bays, at the second level, the windows fill the width of the bay, the right portion of the window actually a narrow door that opens onto a shallow balcony. Above each of these windows today is the low rectangular relief sculpture by Eric Grate, each panel dedicated to one of the Four Winds. At the attic level Asplund has introduced small rectangular windows that function as a modernized frieze. At every point, Asplund’s façade refers to its venerable neighbor: both the simplified regularity of the grid and the magnetic attraction that seems to pull the windows to the left allude to a more powerful force.39 At the same time, the eccentric rhythm of the windows and the recessed strip between old and new structures establishes a degree of individuality for the extension, distinguishing it from the old courthouse. The formal organization found on the main façade is continued around the other exterior faces. The less significant Köpmansgatan flank is visible in its entirety only from an oblique angle. The grid established at the main façade, toward Gustaf Adolf square, leads around the corner into the first bay. From Torggatan, the A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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street that continues north along the line of the main façade, the two faces appear to be articulated equally, but in fact the distance between the pilaster strips is shorter along Köpmansgatan, with the windows, off axis, set into the bays at the lower three levels; the first and the final two bays are left blind. The upper-​ level, attic zone is also blind. Variations in the 88

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pattern are offered in the first window bay at the second level and in the standard-​sized bay and narrower blind bay at the west end. Further shifts are prompted by changes at the street level. At the lowest level the windows shift to the left (as on the main façade); at the second level they fill the bays except those at the ends, where two lateral windows form bookends, one

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Figure 74  (opposite top) Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, façades facing Gustaf Adolf square. The representation shows the extension without the low-​relief sculpture in the second-​story windows. Scale 1:100. Underlying blueprint dated March 1938. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste. Figure 75  (opposite bottom) Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse extension, Köpmansgatan elevation, which reveals the slope running west to east. The tiny windows in the second bays from the left and right are to bathrooms. Scale 1:100. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste. Figure 76 Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, first-​floor plan showing the open courtyard surrounded by a portico and the hall within the extension. Entrance to the extension does not require passage through the old courtyard. Scale 1:100. Underlying blueprint last corrected 1987. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste.

shifted to the right in its bay at the east, the other shifted to the left at the west. At the third story the windows are again shifted to the left. Asplund’s playful handling of these elements can be seen especially well at the point where the ground level changes: here the abstract base is sliced and the window next door clipped by the remaining base (fig. 77). At the rear of the extension the windows are more assertive and the wall recedes: without the need to define the base as a solid wall, windows and pilasters stand out (fig. 78). As on the other two façades, the windows are shifted off axis to the left (now away from the

old courthouse) and divided into thirds by mullions that echo through the different story levels. The second story (with transom lights) and the third story (without) are virtually identical. Both have shallow ornamental balconies. The two-​bay strip between the courthouse and the extension is fully glazed at the second story. At the roofline the skylights, not visible from Gustaf Adolf square, appear as triangular projections, and the entire wall is open to receive western light. In general, this façade has a more industrial character, closer to the first designs of 1934 than the other façades, although varied by the playful off-​axis shifts of the windows. A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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The inner façade wall, the fourth face, gives on to the old courthouse and the three inner faces of the old courtyard (fig. 79). At one point, Asplund described the two-​story window wall as the true façade, since the actual entrance

to the extension is at the southeastern corner, in the vaulted entry narthex. Certainly the clear glass wall helps create the bright effects on the interior. Wooden mullions divide the panes of glass into nominal bays based on an alternating module. A shallow balcony divides the two levels of window wall, and behind the glass plane are the piers and grand staircase of the main hall, the latter climbing from east to west (right to left in fig. 79). A single line of ten windows above the window wall faces the third story. Above that is an outdoor terrace fronting a lunchroom and café barely visible from the courtyard. In the cover photograph of the booklet published to mark the completion of the building, and overseen by Asplund, the reader looks through one of the arches of the old courtyard, its keystone settling just over the horizontal entablature of the new building, and sees reflected in the glass, behind the camera,

Figure 77 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view to the southwest along Köpmansgatan at the level change. Figure 78 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, rear (western) façade facing Kristine Church. Figure 79  (opposite) Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the courtyard and glass wall to the extension. The photograph shows the statue Naked Girl by Gerhard Henning, added in 1939 without Asplund’s involvement.

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Figure 80 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, revolving-​door entrance to the main hall. This “practical” entrance seemed insufficiently monumental to some visitors. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-44-145.

the entry door from Norra Hamngatan with its decorated tympanum. The square basin of the courtyard fountain (and its reflection) are linked by the seams of the pavement meeting along the orthogonals. The new is framed in the old; the orthogonals explain that the new is the natural continuation of the old. Standing in the courtyard on a sunny day, it is even possible to line up the moldings of the old building with their reflections in the new building, allowing the old to find itself in the new. These then were the exteriors. After mounting the stairs from Gustaf Adolf square, examining the courtyard, one turned right, through a simple revolving door into the courthouse (fig. 80). 92

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Modernization The modernization of tradition was Asplund’s main aim. Though the façades share characteristics of scale and proportion with the older buildings around the square, no detail is unchanged: simplified bases and capitals like paper cutouts, abstract window-​triglyphs and a complex shifting rhythm of pilasters and windows across the façades. That rhythm of the pilasters and windows creates the ironic commentary on canonical classicism. Playful, witty, complicated, Asplund seems to be marking out the novelty of his building from everything on the square, suggesting the distance of his building from their sober and earnest efforts. The historical recollection may be to the classical complexity of buildings by architects like Giulio Romano or Baldassare Peruzzi, mid-sixteenth-​ century architects well known to Asplund, but the placement of these effects on a courthouse violates any decorum they would have understood.40 So radical and so unexpected is this shift that it is hard to avoid the conclusion that with this displacement Asplund meant something other than complete reverence for the older building. Modernization also meant light, a precious commodity at 57º north, from the glass southern face toward the courtyard (fig. 81) and from the roof. Light was the subject of practical and symbolic concern in northern lands, and glass was the material par excellence of modernism. The refined and varied provision of light at the courthouse extension thus tied it to new buildings elsewhere in Europe, where large walls of glass provided a distinctive new expression. Big sheets of glass meant light, and light meant hygiene and cleanliness rather than dirt and sickness. Light suggested the future, not the past; good, not evil. In the turbulent political climate of the 1930s, as a left-​wing

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Figure 81 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the area next to the glass wall, showing the piers that Asplund planned to use for heating and the scales-of-​ justice lighting. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-082.

commentator noted in Fönstret (The window), light spoke to the times: “The new building style requires large windows, light and air for the sake of hygiene, and we welcome that with pleasure and wonder how we could stand the old holes. The growth of our spirit and our health demands wide-​open windows toward Europe and the world.”41 The interior of the extension provides further evidence for the modernization of tradition. Here the strongest influence is from Le Corbusier, the critical source for Asplund at this point. As Hakon Ahlberg wrote of Asplund’s designs for the Stockholm Exhibition, Le Corbusier was “the genie of the lamp . . . without whose aid the work would not have come into being,” and the influence

was still apparent four years later.42 Just inside the entry are lights in the form of electrified judicial scales, which hang from the rounded piers–water conduits that terminate in T-shaped braces on the ceiling. For Le Corbusier, this kind of bracing evoked naval architecture. He had illustrated similar bracing from the Empress of France in Toward an Architecture and employed it in the Villa Savoye, Poissy (1927–29). The extension was in the port city of Gothenburg, so these naval references that recall Le Corbusier also formed a wholly appropriate local allusion by Asplund. The modernized monumental staircase, painted light blue on the underside, encountered almost immediately on entering, seems to be let down on wires, like a ship’s gangplank, from A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 82 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the monumental stairs leading to the second floor. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-081. Figure 83  (opposite) Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the hall toward the west, showing the clock and the dogleg stairs at the far end. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-109-071.

the second floor (fig. 82). Just beyond the stairs the central hall opens vertically through three stories with curved wood-​paneled balconies and is surmounted by a jagged-​edged industrial skylight running east-​west in the northern half of the ceiling (fig. 83). As Le Corbusier did in the Mass-​Production House (1921), in the Villa Savoye, and elsewhere, Asplund also exposed multiple types of vertical movement, setting them out from the walls or giving them a sculptural presence through contrasting materials. Close to the monumental stair, a polished steel and glass-​fronted elevator contained within a white enameled steel frame stands out from the balconies at the eastern end of the hall (fig. 84). At the western end is a dogleg stair 94

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painted on its underside with the light blue colors of Gothenburg (fig. 83). From the piers Asplund hung a frameless skeletal modernized clock that recalls, possibly, the kind of clock one might see in a train station or on board ship. For Asplund, as for Le Corbusier, these motifs also resonated with vernacular forms. Freestanding clocks are common in Swedish churchyards, where they call the people to worship, or on rural manorial estates, in the form of bells that once called laborers to their tasks or released them at the end of the day (fig. 85).43 Here the modernized form of vernacular clock calls people to justice—​specifying law as mechanical, unyielding, dependable, and evenhanded social benefit.44

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Marc Treib has described the hall as a kind of urban piazza with clock tower and elevator as modernist campanili and a glass-​roofed enclosure to create the open-​air character.45 The floor is surfaced with gray-and-​white marble, giving it the character of a courtyard on the interior of a palazzo. The guard’s kiosk of enameled steel and wood panels that faces the entry might even be something that migrated indoors from the square or from the Stockholm Exhibition. The space also has a kind of public urban lucidity: visitors knew where to go because they could see their goal. Functional divisions within the hall are clear. On the first-​floor level on the north side were offices, and on the second-​floor level were four courtrooms around three sides (north, west, east; fig. 86); offices surrounded all four sides on the third floor. On the fourth floor, overlooking the courtyard, was the café and lunchroom, which, although open to the public, was largely intended for the staff. Renovations over time have largely transformed the space beyond recognition. Around three sides of the second floor of the hall stands a solid waist-​high wood-​ paneled barrier. At the two ends and along the longer northern side it provides modest protection behind which lawyers and clients could sit relatively undisturbed at desks built into the handrail. Letterbox “windows” cut into the panels at the desk level, echoing the long attic windows on the exterior facing the square, allow a view over the hall, and even those sitting at the desks can be seen from below (fig. 87, and see fig. 83). Other public areas allowed for conferences or meetings. On the south side the second story opens out toward the plate-​glass window facing the courtyard and provides a seating-and-​conversation area (a remnant of the “Salle des Pas Perdus” of earlier proposals) around the point where the

monumental stair emerges. Here handrails supported on simple spindles (rather than a solid-​panel barrier) allow light to penetrate to the central hall from the window wall (fig. 88). A reveal (a thin shadowed indentation) set into the floor section breaks its massive thickness. A third-​story balcony, set back at the ends and slightly forward on the sides, rings the hall on all four sides and provides communication between the offices. The paneling that provides the dominant light-​brown tone for the hall is Oregon pine, its curved corners recalling the design of an ocean liner or the soft edges of Gothenburg’s preferred Art Deco. Though the hall has a comparatively restful character as a result of its height and its unity of tone (both chromatic and aural) and is comparatively easy to negotiate from a functional point of view, rarely (if ever) is it completely symmetrical. The northern flank is closed by the offices and the courtrooms; the southern side is open to the courtyard; the northern half of the roof is glass; the southern side is solid; the railing is solid on the northern side and A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 84 (opposite) Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the hall toward the east, showing the elevator and the second-​floor well for the monumental staircase (to the right). Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-104-0165. Figure 85 The school clock (Gymnasieklockan), Västerås, is typical of the simple beam structures often used to hold up church bells or workplace bells.

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Figure 86 (opposite) Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, second-​floor plan. Between the courtrooms are bathrooms for the judges and advisers. The old courthouse reverted to offices. Original blueprint dated 1938. Scale 1:100. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Treiste. Figure 87 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of the second-​ floor barrier and consultation areas looking east. Figure 88 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view across the second-​floor seating area looking west from the consultation area between courtrooms A and B. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-104-0160.

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Figure 89 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of courtroom B, facing Gustaf Adolf square. This courtroom was for maritime law (hence the model ship). Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-089.

open on the southern; the clock hangs from one of the central columns but extends to the north, balancing the stairs; at ground level, upwardly directed cones held by suspended tracks provide artificial light on the northern side; electric-​light judicial scales on either side of the long stairs supplement the natural light on the southern side. Asplund has transformed the massive solidity of a masonry structure and the sacral solemnity of the nineteenth-​century hall of justice into a light-​filled modern formal meeting place with light-​brown pine paneling providing the dominant tone. Treib’s suggestion that the hall has the quality of a piazza perfectly captures the sense of scale and the variety of the space. The hall may even recall, in a modernized version, Italian courtyards like that 100

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of the medieval Castellare dei Malavolti, Siena, or that of the late fifteenth-​century Palazzo Contarini del Bovolò, Venice, spaces that seem to be both exteriors and interiors, which suggests that Asplund found a way to interpret Sittean variety on the interior. The acoustic, however, is decidedly that of an interior space: footsteps echo; voices are largely hushed or, when raised, resound and are quickly lowered. There is no sound from downtown Gothenburg just beyond the walls. The overall effect of Asplund’s design is captured by a phrase coined by the Social Democratic finance minister Ernst Wigforss after World War II: Wigforss writes of the responsibility of socialists to create a “provisional utopia,” a place that demonstrates a reality that is “sufficiently concrete to

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represent a comprehensible alternative to the current reality.”46 In that respect, the protected quiet of the spaces in Asplund’s extension evokes a cloister within a convent. Modernizing the courtrooms posed a particularly delicate problem (fig. 89). Swedish judicial practice is quite unlike the Anglo-​ Saxon. Swedish judges and lawyers do not wear wigs and robes, and in keeping with Continental practice, there is no jury system. “The trial is mostly a rather dull and boring performance, lacking the drama of the Anglo-​American trials,” the Norwegian legal historian Johannes Andenaes has written.47 A process of information gathering prior to the trial puts all the evidence in the hands of a judge, who then meets privately with the attorneys to help define the positions they intend to take, and the material is then woven together in a written presentation. Oral argument, though enhanced by reforms during the 1930s, consists of a discussion of the evidence rather than an extended theatrical witness interrogation by lawyers.48 The judge delivers the verdict after consultation with voluntary lay advisers, representatives of the community, who sit alongside him or her on the bench. Their role corresponds roughly to the Anglo-​Saxon tradition of the jury. Traditionally, the judge and advisers sat in a line at a desk raised significantly above others in the room, the professional judge at the center and the advisers to either side. In his courtroom, the judge was no longer merely himself; he had divine powers that he exercised on behalf of God. As the introduction to the Laws of the Kingdom of Sweden makes plain: “A judge will first reflect that he is God’s agent and that the office he fulfills belongs to God and not to himself and [that] therefore the judgment he delivers belongs to God; since he delivers judgment, being in God’s office, acting on God’s authority,

so it is certainly God’s judgment and not that of men.”49 Judges understood this responsibility and felt its weight.50 Asplund, however, faced new challenges: how to strike a balance between awe, which would convince the accused of the seriousness of the moment, and reassurance that guilt was not assumed—and how to express the sense of business routine without tending toward bureaucratic indifference. Asplund lowered the podium under judge and advisers and redefined their relation using a semicircular table that allowed them easily to look at the lawyers and the defendant and to face one another. The Bible stand he designed for the oath is attached to the forward lip of the desk, and the accused or witnesses being sworn to testimony has to stand on a slightly lower level, facing the judge and surrounded on three sides by the advisers, while promising the truth of their testimony (fig. 90). This moment is one of dramatic close-​ up, a moment of cinematic intensity in which judge and advisers, accused or witness under oath, come face to face across the Bible.51 As in the main hall, Asplund considered daylight important in the courtrooms—a significant departure from the practice in traditional law courts, where daylight was excluded or brought in generally from skylights. Windows in the courtrooms facing Köpmansgatan, for example, brought daylight into the upper part of the room; in the rooms facing the square or the church at the rear, double-​height windows brought in more daylight (fig. 90). As supplement, Asplund’s two-​part electric lights line the wall, providing a general well-​diffused light, the light of the everyday, across the room (fig. 91). Finally, as part of the modernization of the courthouse, Asplund provided contemporary art. On the façade, as we have seen, he made many efforts to display “a good art A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 90 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, view of courtroom E, facing the churchyard between Köpmansgatan and the Kristine Church, showing a Bible stand and one of the diffuser lights designed to duplicate the effects of daylight in the room. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1985-109-093. Figure 91 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, courtroom light fixture. The fixture included an upturned light facing into a diffuser and a secondary light shielded behind the central “stigma.”

work,” and on the interior he engaged Elsa Gullberg (1886–1984) to provide textiles, most notably rugs and hangings. Gullberg was one of Sweden’s leading weavers and at the Home Exhibition of 1917 had provided Gregor Paulsson the textiles that formed the basis for the exhibition’s theme, “More Beautiful Everyday Things.” In 1927 she started Elsa Gullbergs 102

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Textil och Inredningar AB, and inviting her to contribute to the courthouse extension was not just a defensible artistic decision but also good politics, if for no other reason than that she had been among the group of “traditionalists” who had protested Paulsson’s direction of the Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts at the Stockholm Exhibition.52 Of the two significant works

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from her loom that survive, one, the so-​called paragraph rug, is a copy (fig. 92). It commemorates the language of law; the first printing of Swedish law had taken place two hundred years earlier, in 1734. It seems at first to be a repetitious set of question marks, explanation points, numbers, and glyphs. Closer inspection reveals subtle variations, both within the sequence of numbers and glyphs and in their form. Art mirrors the law, perhaps, its subtle interpretation

being its lifeblood. The other surviving work, in the form of a modernist collage, celebrates all local participation in building with the initials of the thirty-​five persons most responsible for the courthouse building: architect, clients, suppliers, and contractors (fig. 93). Some names are connected to symbols: Asplund’s initials, for example, are linked to the noted commercial image for Mazzetti’s glasses, used at the Stockholm Exhibition; the judicial and A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 92 Elsa Gullberg, the original paragraph rug. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1989-12-056.

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Figure 93 Elsa Gullberg, narrative, or “signature,” rug-​tapestry. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1989-12-054.

governmental clients who oversaw the construction, Bernhard Lindberg, Ivor Nyborg, and others, are surmounted by a gavel; in the lower right, next to a trowel, are initials belonging to the builders and the construction firms. Just above Asplund’s initials are those of the newspapers, GHT for Göteborgs handels- och sjöfartstidning (Handelstidningen) and GMP for Göteborgs morgonpost, two of the Gothenburg newspapers that most harshly criticized the project. A dashed-​line arrow points at 104

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Asplund’s initials—​the arrow of their editorial darts. Random dots depict a broken clock face, perhaps recalling the lengthy two-and-a-half-​ decade building process that culminated in 1936.53 It is a characteristic piece of ironic self-​ deprecation from the architect who mocked his own buildings in acceptera, and it expresses the notion of architecture as the product of a team of workers, much in the air at the time. “Collective novels,” as they were called, such as Josef Kjellgren’s Människor kring en bro (People

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around a bridge, 1930) and Rudolf Värnlund’s Man bygger ett hus (Building a house, 1938), told the story of construction from multiple points of view.54 All of these elements spoke of the modernization of traditional elements found in public buildings at the time: modern lighting, modern decorations, modernized movement systems, modern structural expression, modern art. Yet four reliefs on the theme of the winds (in stone), two rugs, and some abstract scales of justice serving as light fixtures constitute a relatively paltry decorative program for a courthouse, and the absence of sculpture was the most conspicuous omission when the building was first unveiled. What remains to be appreciated is exactly what Asplund was trying to express through modernization.55 Was this simply a game of artistic novelty? An attempt to bring life to tired symbols? Or was there some idea about the law that Asplund sought to express? In answering a journalistic questionnaire about the task of the architect, Asplund had protested that architects should not close themselves in their offices and fiddle around with details but needed to make sure that the solution to a problem answered questions about the society’s political and social needs.56 In the presentation brochure published on the opening of the building, Asplund wrote that people come to the courthouse “filled with trouble and anxiety, and there a friendly, sunny light enters the room,” a line sometimes interpreted as referring to the illumination of a rationalist and modernist Social Democracy.57 But what does it mean to say that Asplund’s courthouse extension is a Social Democratic building? Was it just a matter of “a friendly, sunny light,” or was there something critical in that expression that would denote the modernity of Asplund’s idea

of the law? Just because “a friendly, sunny light enters the room,” is it necessarily an altogether “friendly” place? Or should a law court even be a “friendly” place? As Harry Lilja, a character in Sigfrid Siwertz’s play Ett brott (A crime, 1933), a judicial and psychological drama that had a lengthy run at the Lorensberg Theater in Gothenburg at the end of 1933, says, “I feel sick when I hear someone talk about the mystery of crime. A blue summer day and a Bach prelude can be filled with mystery.”58 How then did Asplund try to express the idea that this “friendly, sunny” room was also a court of law, a serious place, and not just a rather pleasant hotel lobby or a department store, as one reviewer suggested rather harshly?59 How did Asplund manage to link these modernized motifs together into a compositional and an intellectual whole? How did he find a modern architectural language for the values of the law? L aw as the Framework for Architecture Law and its defense were aristocratic privileges in Sweden. Until the middle of the seventeenth century there was no class of professional lawyers or legal advocates at all. “The law-​bearing class was the nobility,” as the historian Michael Roberts has written, and “the nobility were . . . the natural buttress of the rule of law.”60 They served as judges in their home parishes and represented the rule of law to the king through their assembly in Stockholm, which met in the pilaster-​fronted House of the Nobles (begun 1641). Traditionally, court buildings recalled palaces.61 Yet by 1930, as Asplund well knew, the aristocracy was no longer the only guardian of the rule of law. The laws of the kingdom had been published and printed in 1734, and the constitution of 1809 recognized legal professionals, not all of whom were aristocrats.62 New A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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reforms in the early twentieth century removed many of the inequalities still found in the law. Asplund, therefore, was caught between the traditional expectation for law courts to achieve representational status for the sake of the judges, the city, and the region and the contemporary architectural and political need for the courthouse extension to be modern and efficient. These demands created tensions that would have been difficult for Asplund (or any architect) to resolve at this time, tensions that he may not in fact have fully resolved but that played themselves out over the course of design and construction. Downplaying the representational function of the building was evidently a deliberate choice to which Asplund cleaved from the start. He had been trying to underplay the representational function of the courthouse extension since 1913, when he drew a simple linear façade toward Gustaf Adolf square; the building he unveiled in 1936 was comparatively modest as well. Modesty of architectural expression was habitual for someone dedicated to the values of urbanism and the character of urban continuity, but by 1936 the politics of urban display had changed. As Uno Åhrén, his colleague in the writing of acceptera, commented about the courthouse extension in an interview with a journalist from Gothenburg’s Social Democratic newspaper Ny tid, human and social issues were most important, “and in such circumstances representational buildings and the tourist’s point of view have no place.”63 Asplund might have agreed. From 1916 (following the competition entry) to 1934 his designs, on the insistence of the city, always offered a second portal facing the square: to forgo that portal was a decisive retreat from representational authority, a change of course that, whatever the later complaints, had latterly been supported by the building committee. 106

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During the initial phases of urban and political ambition in Sweden, the Social Democrats had comparatively little interest in the mobilization of the population into great theaters of public space or in the construction of new urban spaces.64 The first of May, the great international socialist holiday, was the occasion for their annual mass public gesture, and they neither needed nor wanted new spaces for its celebration: the significance of May Day depended on briefly inhabiting the old representational spaces of the city.65 As historians have pointed out, the goal of social democracy was not to mold the population into a collective.66 Regardless of the talk about the “mass” and the “individual” in acceptera, private space mattered: to transact the relations of mother, father, and children; the relations of worker and family; and the welfare of the elderly and the poor. The key relation was between individual and state. The noted images provided by Kooperativa förbundets arkitektkontor for their entry into the City of Stockholm Housing Competition in 1932 are emblematic of those ambitions. They show gardens, rooms, daily family tasks, and cross-​generational cooperation rather than an active street life. Asplund’s building too retreats from the patriotic noise of the square. It offers no alternative place for civic or patriotic celebration, barely even a place from which to hang a flag or to deliver a speech. It does not compete with Tessin’s old courthouse structure. It is securely and completely an extension in front of a meeting spot rather than the focus of public attention. Even so, the extension had to maintain its dignity. Time and again, the exchanges between the concerned parties reveal deployment of the word “monumentality” (never precisely defined). What did that mean? To the committee one can imagine that the concept of

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“monumentality” alluded to those qualities of memory brought about by large-​scale, grand, public architecture.67 The members of the building committee might have read—​might even have owned—​Axel Romdahl’s collection of essays entitled Det monumentala sinnelaget (The monumental disposition), which had been published in 1921. Romdahl’s definition rested on historical tradition. Monumentality was “large and costly, neither more nor less,” and built “not for the hour or the next morning but for eternity.” Buildings like the temple at Paestum or the Duomo di Siena came to his mind. And if one wanted to experience monumentality today, he concluded, one could “go to Stockholm’s city hall.”68 For Asplund, however, the term had other meanings. In his chapter “The New Monumentality” (Ny monumentalitet) in Den nya arkitekturen (1916), Gregor Paulsson, director of the Stockholm Exhibition and collaborator in acceptera, had offered a new definition. Traditionally, as Paulsson noted, decorative and historical forms had concealed the interior functions of representative architecture. Today he noted new tendencies to express function through architecture in train stations and department stores. Paulsson thought that the best modern European architecture had now taken on the task of representing function clearly and efficiently without historical decorative cover. For Paulsson, “monumental architecture becomes monumental by allowing the exterior to symbolize the building block; it is seen neither through classical symmetry nor through a modern painterly façade expression. . . . As in all other periods, naturally—​times of original architectural culture, nota bene—​it is not new façades but an honest interpretation of our time’s new structures that multiplies architecture’s capital.”69 In short, the expression of

structure consistent with typology and efficient function constituted the main quality of monumental architecture for Paulsson. This was, perhaps, what Asplund understood by monumentality in the façade design, whether his patrons knew that or not. It helps explain why he chose to express the interior piers on the exterior. Asplund might even have recalled Paulsson’s argument about the new role of representational buildings in the modern era. Buildings such as “royal palaces (which will never again be built), churches, city halls or courthouse buildings,” buildings that once used to be the representative buildings on a city’s only piazza, are no longer necessary. Today, he notes, representational buildings play quite a different role in the lives of citizens: “only a temporary traffic junction, a place for a theater, a civil-​service building, and banks.”70 Even so, Asplund’s (and Paulsson’s) understanding of “monumentality” presumed the existence of a referential building typology. What would that mean for a modern law court? Whatever else, it did not mean totally abandoning the symbols of law: the classical orders, the scales of justice. But as these two motifs suggest, in the case of Asplund’s courthouse extension they could not just be modernized but needed to be modernized to reflect the Social Democratic program. The Social Democrats and the L aw Critique of Swedish legal practices had been pointed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In 1910 even the writer August Strindberg had publicly criticized court practices and assumptions about human behavior that seemed utterly out of touch with the realities of class. “He blushes! He turns pale! Ergo, he is guilty. Perhaps guilty for something else that only he knew, and therefore he turns white, and therefore, guiltless, he accepts his penalty A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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with a certain resignation.” And when the punishment comes: “For the poor, a ten-​kronor fine for a box on the ear is a big, perhaps ruinous punishment, while for the rich man it is almost no penalty at all, so that he can afford to take pleasure in a few punches.” Strindberg touched on issues of class and judicial practice, practice that was, as he put it, “legal but not logical,” a phrase that has more bite in Swedish due to the similar sounds of the two key words: “Det är lagiskt, men icke logiskt.”71 Classical jurisprudence had maintained (indeed still maintains) that crime is first and foremost a juridical entity, the product of the freedom of the will, and that it requires punishment irrespective of social, psychological, or biological factors. Challenges to these propositions in the latter part of the nineteenth century and first decades of the twentieth by positivist thinkers (such as the Italian jurists Raffaelle Garofalo, Cesare Lombroso, Enrico Ferri) resulted in a redefinition of the nature of criminality and a reexamination of the effectiveness of punishment. In Sweden, Johan C. W. Thyrén (1861–1933) led the practical transformation of the law and judicial practice following these new principles. Invited by the government of Arvid Lindman (1906–11) to undertake a study of criminal law, he produced a major work entitled Principerna för en strafflagsreform (The principles for a reform of the laws on punishment, 1910–14) as well as a number of shorter texts that lay the foundations for a modernized judicial practice. For Thyrén, law was neither an ideal vision nor a mathematical system: “law is a system of practical rules that are intended to reach a practical result, and therefore it must take into consideration all circumstances of nature (including the illusions and false impressions among individuals in society) that could influence the result.”72 108

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Typical of the kind of studies undertaken in light of Thyrén’s work was one by Andreas Bjerre, a Swedish professor of criminal law at the University of Tartu in Estonia, who wrote an article (1907) on the psychology of the thief (“Bidrag till tjuvnadsbrottets psykologi”) in which he studied the value systems of the criminal. He followed this with a series of interviews with murderers in Långholmen Prison (Stockholm), published as Bidrag till mordets psykologi (Contribution to the psychology of murder, 1925), which appeared in Swedish, German, and English. Extensively reviewed and debated within judicial circles, Bjerre was “one of the first jurists to undertake research about the reality of prisons.”73 Bjerre’s research strongly influenced legal thinking already under the sway of logical positivism.74 Writing in 1935, Olof Kinberg (1873–1960), one of the leading Swedish criminologists, summarized the change as a new emphasis on the protection of society against the damage and the risk of crime, thus eliminating the distinction between penalty and prevention. Positivism emphasized reprimand over retribution and attempted to reorient the legal system toward an “educative and curative” function in addition to its traditional role of rendering the “dangerous individual harmless by eliminating him from Society.”75 As justice minister in the government of C. G. Ekman (1926–28), Thyrén introduced systems of protective custody, rather than prison, for those with diminished responsibility, and preventative internship for those with more dangerous psychological problems, to keep them apart from common criminals.76 In 1931 Natanael Gärde, Thyrén’s successor as justice minister, facilitated the passage of one of Thyrén’s key proposals, the so-​called dagsbotsystem, a measure that adjusted fines to

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the guilty person’s ability to pay, and with the formation of the Social Democratic government under Per Albin Hansson in September 1932, reforms reflecting the positivist understanding of criminality continued.77 Hansson appointed Karl Schlyter (1859–1959), Thyrén’s cousin, as justice minister. New crimes were identified (such as blackmail), and the relation between punishment and crime became an issue of central concern for the government.78 On 13 December 1934 Schlyter gave a speech in which he proposed radical measures to reduce the prison population: “Avfolka fängelserna—​bygg inte nya!” (Depopulate the prisons—​build no new ones). In subsequent legislation he proposed to extend the dagsbotsystem and to create special facilities for youthful offenders rather than mix them in with more mature prisoners.79 Following Bjerre, Schlyter personally tried to understand how criminals experienced the justice system, visiting prisons regularly to see where prisoners lived. One practical result of Schlyter’s prison visits was enlargement of prison windows.80 And he recommended wider experience in the courts and the jails for the judiciary.81 Trainee judges, he thought, should spend time within prison walls and experience the effects of their judicial decisions. Judges, as one critic suggested in 1935, needed different training, rooted in “psychology and psychiatry” or in “practical social studies” of one sort or another.82 Later, even the nature of court practice changed with the expansion of oral argument over written proceedings.83 Law reform rested at the center of the Social Democratic program, not just for itself but because law was at the heart of social reform. At the May Day celebrations of 1933 at Gärdet in Stockholm, the Social Democratic prime minister Per Albin Hansson spoke to

the authority of law and its role in a Social Democratic government, taking up the ancient apothegm Land skall med lag byggas (The country shall be built on law) as his theme.84 Listeners heard not only a restatement of the Social Democratic path to change through lawful means, a key party principle going back to the decision of Hjalmar Branting and the socialist leadership twenty years earlier to fight for power through the ballot box rather than armed struggle. They also heard that Sweden and its leaders intended to follow quite a different path from that being followed by the governments in Germany, Italy, and Spain. He offered six meditations on the importance of an impartial law for the country, introducing each with the incantation Land skall med lag byggas. Thus, for example, he noted that “the country shall be built on law, but the law shall be liberal and just. The law shall have as its goal to offer security to the citizens and to safeguard their freedom, and therefore it must also discipline high-​handedness, punish abuse and acts of violence, force the refractory to an ordered collective social life with us on the basis of the law.”85 Perhaps at these words his listeners might have remembered the recent killing of five strikers at Lunde in Ådalen by Swedish army troops in May 1931, an event that had, among its other consequences, helped bring the Social Democrats to power. Underlining the rule of law was a statement of principles, an attack on the political opposition at home and abroad, a reassurance to followers, and a public profession of Social Democratic faith in the traditions of Swedish law.86 The speech and its themes had another role to play in Social Democratic plans. Building a society based on laws entailed transformation of the state to protect the citizens’ economic and social welfare against injustice: a guarantee A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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that the provisions of the strong state would function broadly in the people’s interests. As the state ceded its role as the overseer of the interests of the bourgeoisie, law became the medium through which the shift expressed itself, the agency that renegotiated relations between the different classes within society and that took responsibility for workers and peasants. In talking about “law,” therefore, Hansson spoke not just about criminal law but about the role government could play to improve people’s lives. “The country shall be built on law. But the first requirement, in our opinion, is not new laws, harsher penalties, or more police. It instead requires a positive act to alleviate daily need and a serious effort to solve the great current problem of security for our people’s future maintenance.”87 Hansson referred then to a proposal of the social minister, Gustav Möller, then making its way through Parliament, that would create the foundations for the new welfare state: “I shall content myself with underlining the proposal’s character as a general welfare program, where different groups’ needs shall be attended to and the whole welded together to the benefit of the whole people. It is my strong belief that the realization of such a program for the people will create a feeling of confidence and trust, thereby doing more to secure peaceful development and democratic order than anything else.”88 Law, therefore, would be the cornerstone for the transformation of the state, and Hansson sought to explain how a united front of working people (industrial workers and farm workers) would thrive under the protection of a Social Democratic government. A listener would have concluded that the Social Democratic interpretation of “law” was as much political as juridical, founded on and advanced in the interests of both the urban and the rural working class. 110

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This new emphasis on law and civic order by the Social Democratic government complemented the reduction in governmental support for the Gustav Adolfsdagen celebrations after 1932, the three-hundredth anniversary of the great king’s death.89 Judged on the explosion of private-​public initiatives (with Gustav-​ oriented exhibitions, public talks, books for scholars, adults, and children) that year, it is no surprise that the government thought that celebrations could stand (or fall) on their own.90 Politics played a role too. Social Democratic and left-​wing newspapers reflected the events that took place on that day, but as celebrations returned to the hands of local appassionati, the left-​wing newspapers either ignored them or used the occasion to present critical essays on the dangers of excessive nationalism, pointing to Germany and Italy as object lessons. In its rejection of the time-​hallowed place of the hero-​king, the left mined a tradition of intellectual misgivings about imperial ambitions during the Great Power period, which gained strength during the anxious years leading up to World War II. Religious and right-​wing politicians might still praise the great hero-​king, but by 1932 liberal historians and Social Democrats were skeptical.91 The left-​wing magazine Clarté devoted two articles to the subject of the celebrations in 1932. There Stellan Arvidson argued that present-​day reactionaries who gathered to celebrate Gustav Adolf could properly be compared to the Catholic Church that fought Luther and killed Giordano Bruno or to the Danish “bailiffs” who opposed the medieval Swedish folk hero Engelbrekt Engelbrektsson.92 The day was, wrote Per Nyström in the same issue, a manifestation of bourgeois ideology: “Gustav Adolf is defined in bourgeois eloquence as a hero who represented the unity of Sweden, gathering together the Swedish people

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for a heroic deed.” This situation, Nyström concluded, is a historical falsehood. Gustav Adolf was a representative of the upper class and should therefore be treated with suspicion.93 Withdrawal of governmental financial support from the celebrations marked a notable change in national policy. It was in this political context, and in light of the new phase of legal thinking in Sweden, that the Gothenburg City Council took up the courthouse extension in 1934. Displacement of symbolic meaning from the square was more than circumstantial; it was political. Asplund’s inconspicuous location for the sculptural component of the façade and his rejection of its symbolic potential (merely “a good work of art”) were deliberate and considered, in political terms. The proposal for glass reliefs on Gothenburg themes, later changed to the Four Winds, was equally eloquent. In short, the major façade toward the square was almost wholly bleached of traditional symbolic significance in a historical context where those most attached to the symbolic values at the heart of their city would be most sensitive about their absence. The connection between old and new remained critical. All this Asplund must have considered deliberately; but the building was still a law court. How did Asplund underline the rule of law? The answer is found in the interior, where relations between the individual and the law could be set out and defined. For Asplund, architecture was to be experienced in movement, and in his most fully elaborated designs he highlights the visitor’s path to create a series of views that enlarge on the building’s message and purpose. Although Asplund was fascinated with Le Corbusier’s ideas of form, his expression of movement in architecture was not an abstract promenade that forced the visitor to experience the

building as an outsider, a flâneur who must puzzle out the forms and experience novelty at every turn. Instead, Asplund engaged the visitor with transformed (but recognizable) objects to underline the symbolic and spiritual values of the building. The path is like the one described by Paul Frankl in Principles of Architectural History (German edition, 1914) in his description of “purpose” in architecture: When I speak of purpose in architecture, I mean that architecture forms the fixed arena for actions of specific duration, that it provides the path for a definite sequence of events. Just as these have their logical development, so the sequence of spaces, and so too the principal and secondary passages existing within each space, have their logic. The clearly prescribed circulation, which leads us through the spaces in an opera house, through the vestibule to the ticket office, or through the corridors and up steps to a cloakroom, presupposes a definitely ordered activity, and the spatial form is completely dependent upon the particular type of activity.94 At Asplund and Sigurd Lewerentz’s Woodland Cemetery (1915–40), for example, movement is the key as the visitor moves from the main road, Nynäsvägen, alongside the streaming fountain set into a long stone wall and passes up into the bowl of the landscape. The hill—​ with its crown of trees, the cross, and, at the brow of the hill, the crematorium—​frames the experience. A stone path to the left leads the visitor forward along a clipped screen of poplars. Together these objects embody hope, aspiration, constancy, growth, continuity, and redemption, not just discretely but knit together through the visitor’s inhabitation A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 94 Gunnar Asplund and Sigurd Lewerentz, Woodland Cemetery, view across the entry. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH1988:0137.

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of space and through imaginative placement within the sweep of the visual field (fig. 94).95 Similar kinds of connection take place at the Stockholm Public Library. The building has a prominent location at the corner of Sveavägen and Odengatan in northern Stockholm. Views down Sveavägen lead ultimately to the Royal Palace; views down Odengatan lead past Odenplan to the Gustaf Vasa Church (completed 1906); above the library, on the hill, is the university observatory.96 Arriving at the entry from Sveavägen, the visitor climbs the path to the stairs before the main façade. Overhead is the diagrammatic frieze linking together all knowledge and invention, and above that the projecting rotunda. To enter, the visitor must grasp Nils Sjögren’s figural door handles—​Eve on entry and Adam eating the apple on exit—​ and pass into a narrow hallway (fig. 95). There, bound by the scenes representing Homer’s Iliad, the first great literary work of Western literature, one pauses before climbing a narrow

set of stairs to the rotunda, where books line the walls and overhead rises the dome, its outer walls dimpled by stones that seem to suggest the clouds in the sky. In short, the visitor’s path recalls the wider cultural and urbanistic resonance of the building, and while mounting to the library from Sveavägen, the visitor’s effort to reach the building is necessarily increased. It is through our effort that we reach for knowledge, and the building enables us to perform that physical experience with the collective accompaniment of reminders along the path: the natural power of human curiosity, the power of narrative, the universal character of knowledge. Asplund thus offered an empathetic reading of architectural experience that linked intellectual and emotional experience.97 Frankl, of course, may not be Asplund’s source for his active spatial reading of architectural movement. Asplund’s architectural kit contained a number of ideas current in the early decades of the twentieth century. Like his teachers Ragnar Östberg, Carl Bergsten, and Lars Israel Wahlman, he had been influenced by the ideas of German theorists such as Heinrich Wölfflin, Alois Riegl, and August Schmarsow, who had undermined what Sigfried Giedion termed “the factual and materialistic approach” to architectural form: “The analysis of formal shapes appeared to them too coarse to apprehend the spirit of a period.”98 For Schmarsow, for example, space was the “precious kernel . . . on which architectural creation is based. . . . Architecture, therefore, is the creatress of space, in accordance with the ideal forms of the human intuition of space.”99 According to Schmarsow, attention to space was an obligation: “Space must be filled with life if it is to satisfy us and make us happy.”100 That Asplund intended to create a living spatial character around and through his buildings can be seen from his

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early ensembles like the Woodland Cemetery in Stockholm to his later complexes such as the State Bacteriological Laboratory in Solna (1933– 37). Their comparative exterior modesty draws attention away from them as discrete objects or unique forms in space and toward the texture of the site and the connection between building and surrounding. The kernel of Asplund’s work is found here: an exterior that links to its neighbors with the expressive emotional, symbolic, and aesthetic weight carried by the relation of piece to piece and part to part, inside and out.101 Schmarsow used a musical analogy to explain this point. All the elements of architectural construction might be preserved in drawings, plans, elevations, sections, and perspectives, but in that form they were like a musical score that could only be read by an experienced conductor. Unlike the musical performance that “thunders forth and fades away in the same instant in which it comes to life,” a building is a permanent structure that comes to life when “human aesthetic reflection begins to transpose itself into the whole.”102 For Schmarsow, it was the spatial construct of a building that formed its essence. In passing through a building every sentient visitor reenacted the architect’s imagination: this was “the predisposition to the intuited form that we call space.”103 Wölfflin, Riegl, and Schmarsow may have provided the framework in which thinking about architecture took place, but whether Asplund came to this position through an examination of their texts, through echoes of their thought in the work of contemporary writers such as Sigfried Giedion, or from conversation with fellow architects and architectural examples is not known. Asplund was not a theorist. As Carl-​Axel Acking reported, “In his lectures, Asplund did not state as much of his philosophy and view of art as one might have expected, and he never laid claim to any

universal or scientific truth.”104 Issues and positions emerged in the context of problems and their solutions. For example, that Asplund took an interest in baroque architecture is well known. His early trip to Italy produced a rich supply of drawings and a storehouse of ideas that he was able to put to use throughout his career.105 Later trips to Austria and Germany broadened his experience of the nature of the baroque. Could his appreciation of the potency of space also have come from an experience of the works of Borromini, Bernini, and J. B. Fischer von Erlach? Was he directed to the works of Borromini by the rediscovery of the baroque that occurred in his own lifetime? A work such as Hans Sedlmayr’s Architektur Borrominis (1930), with its gestalt-​based emphasis on space as a formative principle (space-​form, space-​boundary, vertical organization), might have offered Asplund insights into his own process of architectural A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 95 Gunnar Asplund, Stockholm Public Library, entry hall, with scenes from Homer’s Iliad on the walls to left and right and the Adam and Eve door at the entrance. Collection Centre canadien d’architecture / Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal, PH1988-0058.

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Figure 96 Glass water fountain on the second floor. Asplund originally placed glass fountains here and at the entrance, but only this one remains.

composition.106 The experiments in wall articulation undertaken by Asplund were not simply formal play but deliberate attempts to address wider issues that were at stake. Asplund might also have read Sigfried Giedion’s Spätbarocker und romantischer Klassizismus (1922). Giedion underlined the unity of inner and outer space using examples drawn largely from German and Austrian architecture. What fascinated Giedion was the cohesive unity of baroque building, the interdependence of space and meaning and the complex connection of form and symbol. For example, he quoted the German philosopher Gottfried Leibniz (1646–1716): “All created things have relations with one another, and each individual thing expresses all the others.”107 Leibniz emphasized the multiplicity of perspectives inherent in perception so that it seemed “as if there were many 114

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different universes, which are, however, but different perspectives of a single universe.”108 Such ideas about space had been in Asplund’s fingers before he adopted modernism, and they remained to be strengthened under its impact. But from what is known of Asplund’s comparatively modest reading habits, if Sedlmayr or Leibniz came to his attention, it was probably through someone like Giedion. Nevertheless, such ideas, however transmitted, formed the frame for Asplund’s thinking. Acking may not have known precisely what Asplund absorbed through conversation and discussion, what effects the debates of the day had had, when he wrote of Asplund’s interest in psychology: “This knowledge [of psychology] was not the fruit of scientific research. . . . Instead he drew on his own experience and observation.”109 In the courthouse extension the exchange between visitor and building intensified in movement to effect transformative psychological and spiritual change.110 The façade of the courthouse extension tells only so much. Even had the sculpture been installed, the figures on their own would have said comparatively little about the law. The first key architectural moment for the expression of law begins just after the revolving door at the entrance. Immediately to the left as one enters is a single pair of electric judicial scales, the first symbols that lead one to understand the function and the symbolic tone of the modernized court of law. Immediately to the right is the clear-​glass face-​like drinking fountain (fig. 96). Conveniently placed for those arriving or departing, scales and fountain announce the presence of a modernized law and symbolically offer transformation through refreshment and enlightenment.111 A few steps further leads to the long straight staircase flanked by the illuminated scales of justice. Asplund devoted a

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Figure 97 Nicodemus Tessin and Gunnar Asplund, Gothenburg Courthouse and extension, section east-​west through the courtyard, showing the exposed character of the stair. Gustaf Adolf square is to the right. Scale 1:100. Drawing by Giovanni de Flego, Trieste. Figure 98 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, staircase, detail of the risers and treads.

great deal of attention to the stairs (as shown in the previous chapter), and they occupy an important position within the space. They have lower risers and deeper treads than normal stairs, and they lengthen the gait of a visitor, suggesting a kind of legal style of walking, a gravitas of movement (figs. 97–99). Asplund had already noted the importance of pace and stride in acceptera—​the stride of the past and the stride of the present—​and enforcing this new “legal” gait required deliberate

intervention from the architect.112 Acking, who worked in Asplund’s office during the design of the building, described the stairs as a device to calm agitated spirits and to “induce appropriate deportment on the part of people . . . taking part in legal proceeding.” Not normal “walking,” it was, as he described it, more like “gliding.”113 The notion of an “appropriate deportment” to which Acking alludes needs to be carried just a little further. Who was Asplund thinking about when he designed the stairs? Deportment is A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 99 Gunnar Asplund, “Walking, then and now.” From Asplund et al., acceptera (Stockholm: Tiden, 1931).

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not universal, for the deportment could perhaps be that of the judge, whose authority should be respected, or a policeman whose probity should be admired, but it might equally be that of the accused, who feels guilt or shame, a victim who feels pain or anxiety, or simply an apprehensive witness.114 The agitated are surely calmed by the stairs, but walking at a slower pace while easily mounting the stairs also stimulates self-​consciousness. All had to mount the same steps and experience an enlargement of feeling as the stairs lengthened time. For the accused or for a witness, the experience would be particularly sharp. Mounting the stairs offered a visitor three critical views: to the light fixtures with the illuminated scales of justice that flank the stairs; to the modernist clock tower above one’s head and to the right (fig. 100); and to the Kristine Church outside and beyond the plate-​glass window (fig. 101), only fully visible as one reaches the top of the stairs, a literal heavenly vision at the end of what the architectural

historian Elias Cornell called “the distanceless roof ” and “vanishing Jacob’s ladder.”115 All three snapshots provide reference points for justice: the first as a modernized version of a traditional symbol, the second as an image of time’s authoritative and ineluctable leveling power, and the third as a reminder of the traditional authority of morality or religion. In effect, each object in its symbolic form calls one back to society’s models of behavior, possibly leading to remorse and repentance or possibly providing comfort and security. These connections, between the individual and the symbols of law and society’s moral values—at another time underlined with the façade sculpture—​ represent Asplund’s interpretation of discussions about law and justice within Swedish legal philosophy. Did justice spring from metaphysical sources in its valuation of the good and the moral, or was it the product of society itself? The issue was especially alive in the 1930s among a group of Swedish legal philosophers

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Figure 100 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, second floor, at the top of the stairs from the ground floor, looking right, where the clock rises over one’s head. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1966-104-164.

called the Uppsala School, after the university where they taught.116 Its major figure was Axel Hägerström (1868–1939), around whom a group of students and like-​minded scholars gathered. Though interested in a broad range of issues related to moral philosophy and subjectivity, one area of special interest was the role of law in an orderly and peaceful society not ruled by class privilege, traditional social hierarchies, or an absolutist ruler.117 Hägerström formulated a theory of moral judgment called värdenihilism, or “value nihilism,” related to contemporary movements in philosophy such as logical positivism.118 Value nihilism, as the name suggests, was anti-​idealistic and antimetaphysical. Philosophy, Hägerström argued, should be concerned only with what is, rather than what ought to be. Rejecting the notion

of an idealistic moral code, he argued that the only coherent reality is the one we actually experience in time and space. We follow the law for social reasons: fear of sanction, belief in divine power, a sense of duty, the certainty of law’s execution. For Hägerström, social power had what he called a “suggestive effect,” which rests in our moral conscience. He also noted those “reflexes which arise unconditionally,” a reference to debates in contemporary psychology. It is the job of society as whole (parents, family, religion, government) to bring up individuals to develop unconditional reflexes that ensure respect for the law.119 Karl Olivecrona, one of Hägerström’s associates at Uppsala, also took an antimetaphysical position. In Law as Fact (1939), Olivecrona argues that idealized notions of justice should A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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Figure 101 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, second floor, view to the Kristine Church at the top of the stairs from the ground floor. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1988-104-0158.

be replaced by concepts more suited to the modern day: “If we discard the superstitious idea that law emanates from a god, it is obvious that every rule of law is a creation of men.”120 Rather than the will of the state, law represents the will of lawgivers (and their collaborators) to influence their fellow citizens. For Olivecrona, as for Hägerström, the paramount issue was what constitutes the obligation, the “ought,” that constrains citizens to observe the law. The liberation of the individual from traditional forms of patriarchy still requires a state that speaks with authority. How can the state influence its citizens, restrain and guide their behavior?121 Fear of punishment plays an important role, as do the moral standards 118

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under which people are raised; in this respect Olivecrona followed Hägerström: law is neither founded on an abstract norm “existing by itself in nubibus” nor “founded on our ideas about justice.” The question of the relations between the law and our moral standards cannot, therefore, be scientifically framed as concerning the relations between two clearly distinct entities—​a law existing by itself and a set of moral ideas as something entirely different. These ideas which we refer to as the law are closely interwoven with the so-​called moral ideas. There is necessarily an intricate interplay of human ideas, feeling and activities,

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a reciprocal influence of individuals on each other.122 Asplund must have been aware of these debates, for they were extensively discussed in contemporary magazines and newspapers; the symbols he selects are not idealizing representations of law (blindfolded Justice) but specific evocations of moral codes and values (the scales, the church), of the ineluctable nature of the legal process (the clock), and of the effects of judgment (the much-​anticipated sculpture). Finally, on entering the courtroom itself, the accused or the witness came face-to-​face with the judge, who administered the well-​known oath on the Bible: “I [name] promise and swear, by God and his Holy Gospel, that I shall witness and testify.” The words were printed on the inside cover of the Laws of the Kingdom of Sweden.123 This intense (and literal) meeting with the face of justice in the presence of another human being was the climactic recollection of society’s values in the body of the person who embodied the values.124 The issues of concern to members of the Uppsala School on a philosophical level reflected larger questions within Swedish society about the way in which law related to citizens. At a political level that relation had been the concern of Thyrén and Schlyter. A government commission formed in 1929 took testimony from judges and lawyers about the nature of trial practices throughout the country. Some, such as the chief magistrate Oscar Dahlbäck (1886–1966) of Jönköping, emphasized the need for a psychological understanding of modern judicial problems. Family and friends might understand more about a criminal than the workmanlike judge.125 Others expressed the need for new buildings or, at the least, improved and well-​maintained facilities.126

Unfortunately, from the architectural historian’s point of view, none of the participants in these hearings was an architect or even bothered to consider architectural issues. In the design of the courtrooms Asplund needed to interpret the relations of lawyers, witnesses, and judge, to be attentive—​in the words of Judge Holger Elliot in praise of the work of Hakon Ahlberg, architect of the High Court in Gothenburg (1949)—“to wise psychological points of view.”127 In breaking down the experience of law into a series of specific symbolic reminders designed to lead toward moral self-​revelation or to provide security and comfort, Asplund may also have reflected contemporary ideas about social psychology such as those found in writers like the German social thinker Georg Simmel (1858–1918). Simmel did not play a major role in Swedish thought at this time, although interest in his writings can be found in art-​historical circles. The art historian Henrik Cornell (1890–1971) discussed Simmel’s ideas about Rembrandt in his book Karakteriseringsproblemet i konstvetenskapen (The problem of characterization in art history, 1928). Cornell gave an overview of Simmel’s ideas about modern times, summarizing his ideas about life in ways that would have resonated with Asplund’s understanding: “Life is not something that stands outside its formed contents as something higher or abstract, nor is it completely a compound of the sum of all contents. Life is, rather, absolute continuity, whose disposition is unity, but it expresses itself in every moment as totality in another form. Every present is determined by all previous moments of life and is a result of all previous moments.”128 In the early 1930s, Simmel’s work was known in the circle of Asplund’s friends and associates and published in magazines he A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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would have seen.129 When Uno Åhrén moved to Gothenburg in 1932, for example, he formed the first sociological society in Sweden, serving as its secretary, and Simmel’s writings would have been an essential part of the curriculum. In Åhrén’s Form review, in which he praised Asplund’s building for its attention to modern notions of the administration of justice, “where notions of retribution give way to a concept of justice founded on psychological and sociological study,” Simmel might well have provided one of the strands in that judgment.130 In addition, one of Simmel’s key ideas—​ it runs throughout his writings—​is reciprocity. Like the pragmatists of his own time and logical positivists a little later, Simmel argued that there was no such thing as intrinsic meaning. But rather than turn to practice like the pragmatists or to science and mathematics like the logical positivists, Simmel believed that meaning and significance emerge only through comparative interaction, what he called the “relations of reciprocal effect” (Wechselwirkung). Simmel used this notion in many situations but applied it to the subject of law in The Philosophy of Money (1900).131 There he explained that no legal precept could be valid in itself, but only in relation to other legal precepts. Simmel called these relations “relations of reciprocal effect.”132 “Truth,” he wrote, “means the relationship between representations.”133 Simmel’s other term for this reciprocity was “psychologism,” which he called “the essence of modernity.” It was “the experiencing and interpretation of the world in terms of the reactions of our inner life, and indeed as an inner world, the dissolution of fixed contents in the fluid element of the soul.” The decision to shift the public function of the extension to the inside, therefore, was a decision that allowed Asplund to stimulate what Simmel would call the “psychologism” 120

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of the individual, and bypass the dangers of the mass in the square. Simmel’s reference to these reciprocal relations would be echoed in a quotation from Olivecrona cited just a little later by Torgny Segerstedt, the editor of Handelstidningen, himself a scholar of comparative religion, in the Gothenburg-​based magazine Theoria: A Swedish Journal of Philosophy and Psychology: “A rule of law is never intended to be regarded in isolation. It is always connected with other rules, and its meaning does not emerge unless its connection is observed.”134 These “relations of reciprocal effect,” and these “connections,” recall the ways that Asplund structures the experience of the staircase in the extension. Simmel had a special word and phrase for these effects. He was especially interested in snapshots, what he called Momentbilder; not ordinary casual photographic snapshots, these were (to quote Simmel) “Momentbilder sub specie aeternitatis,” the moment extended as enduring figure.135 This way of highlighting significant moments accords well with Asplund’s own interest in movement through architectural space. The views from the staircase, to the lights as scales of justice, across and up to the clock, out to the church at the top of the stairs, were significant and formed a series of reciprocal effects with the visitor. They provided connections to comparative moral values, building and law understood subjectively through individual experience. Asplund’s building, using modernized symbols and architectural techniques, thus offered moral and psychological prompts for the observant visitor. The symbols could reassure the visitor of the state’s intention, either providing comfort and security or stimulating moral regeneration. In earlier works Asplund had galvanized the visitor’s attention

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through specific symbols, as seen at the modern cemetery and the modern library. The imagery of a modernized law woven into a spatial experience required a different kind of symbol—​modernized but recognizable. In his early designs for the courthouse extension in Gothenburg, Asplund had identified some of the critical symbolic moments, but he had not pursued them consistently through the building. One drawing from 1920 had opened the building directly to the church, with an open courtyard behind the façade offering an element of surprise in the design. In 1925 he had even proposed to place the figure of Justice with drawn sword at the top of the stairs inside the main hall, to be discovered by visitors on arrival at the landing: Justice ready to surprise the unsuspecting (fig. 102). In the extension as built Asplund found ways to construct consistent symbolic links between visitor, site, and building, creating a critical moral narrative based on suasion and offering redemption. Indeed, it was on the subject of guilt that much contemporary criminology focused. For classical criminology, the arousal of the sentiment of “guilt” in the criminal was one of the goals of penal practice. For modern criminologists, the nature of guilt was a complex matter, the product of society and psychology. In Basic Problems of Criminology, Kinberg sought to distinguish between those who should be held responsible for their actions and those who, because of mental incapacity, should not. Kinberg asked whether one of the tasks of penal law was to awaken adherence to the law among those capable of receiving its message, and he reflected on the conditions in society that might stress those factors: family, shame, duty. The existence of penal law might strengthen morals, but he identified a paradox with the administration of punishment:

Figure 102 Gunnar Asplund, courthouse extension, drawing of 1925 with the hidden figure of Justice, detail. Statens centrum för arkitektur och design, Stockholm, ARKM 1990-041-145.

“where punishments are wanted they have no effect, and where they are effective they are not wanted.”136 For Kinberg, sensitive to social difference and the subtleties of psychological reception, the key question was how to awaken feelings of remorse. Kinberg, and others with him, argued that the major issue for criminal justice was not repression but the application of the scientific principles to the treatment of criminals. Among these principles was the awakening of “psychological responsibility.”137 To achieve this sense of responsibility, criminologists (along with psychologists and philosophers) sought to discover what constituted the nature of “guilt.” The philosopher Åke Petzäll (1901–1957), based in Gothenburg, A sp l und’s Buil ding a nd Modern L aw

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addressed the relation between “law and the individual” in a series of books and articles, stressing psychological issues and especially the question of guilt. In an article on “the sentiment of guilt,” published in Theoria, he quotes a distinguished Belgian criminologist: “where there is no sentiment of guilt we must try and awaken it—​and where it exists already we must gradually eliminate it.”138 For Petzäll, the arousal of guilt becomes the first step in enabling the criminal to judge his own actions from a moral point of view. The terms under which society builds the possibility for individuals to feel guilt or remorse—​what he calls the “acute or intermittent sentiment of guilt”—​is something that goes beyond the questions of guilt or innocence that are decided in courts of law, what he calls “commensurable guilt.” He concludes with

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a suggestion that the true understanding of the sentiment of guilt can best be appreciated from literature and philosophy: “A few pages in St. Augustine, Dostojevski or Baudelaire may very well be said to bring us nearer the understanding of the problem of the sentiment of guilt than the most assiduous research-​work within the sphere of ‘commensurable’ guilt.”139 Could a building open the mind to these sentiments? Here Asplund left behind all other seekers after a modern expression for society’s public buildings. The Gothenburg Courthouse extension offered the possibility of sharpening the relationship between visitor and building, between visitor and the state’s newly redefined sense of the law, between the visitor and his or her conscience.140

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Asplund’s Reputation and the Catastrophic Reception

Chap ter 4

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ew public buildings prompt complex public reactions. Rarely, it seems, does a public building meet with universal acceptance. To one degree or another, citizens and taxpayers think of themselves as the clients and feel they have a right to an opinion about new public buildings erected in their name and with their money. Often the objections are simply to issues of cost, but in periods of societal and architectural change these objections can be more substantial. The introduction of a new architectural style is unlikely to meet with universal acceptance. The public reception of Reginald Uren’s town hall in Hornsey, London (1933–35), as measured in contemporary accounts, gives the flavor of one possible response. “Liking for a building is often very much akin to liking for a person,” read an article in the Hornsey Journal; “it does not come all at once. First impressions are often antagonistic simply because the thing or person is new. ‘’Ere’s a stranger; ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im!’ yells the insular native of the less fashionable parts of the Metropolis. Dare we venture to suggest that critical half-​bricks are being hurled at the new town hall in the same spirit?”1 The new municipal aristocracies posed another set of problems. Not necessarily better educated in architecture than the general public but with considerably more power, town councilors and judges needed to be courted and satisfied. In a

w

letter to the wealthy Willink family in 1924, for whom he had already built a villa, Dudok wrote of the council’s reaction to his design for the town hall in Hilversum: “The Mayor thought it was more like a fort than a town hall. The City Manager thought it was more beautiful than the Berlage Stock Exchange, though he thought the Exchange was downright ugly.”2 It was all part of the “town hall problem” identified by Charles Reilly in 1935. “It is,” he wrote, “too much, no doubt, to expect an assessor, who has himself made a name designing and building today eighteenth-​century[-​style] town halls and who has been selected for his position because of this, to choose a purely functional building such as [modernist architects] Maxwell Fry or Wells-​Coates might offer.”3 Newspapers presented their own problems. Journalists were often no better educated in architecture than the councilors and judges and not likely to take on the powerful over aesthetic matters. Every country has its own journalistic customs, of course. In France, for example, commentary on new public buildings seems relatively restrained even in local newspapers—​ better a lively financial scandal (as at Cachan, where the books were cooked over the bricks) than a brouhaha over taste.4 In Britain, rare is the newspaper commentary that strays beyond a glowing narrative account of the opening ceremonies (especially involving royalty). 123

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Journalists may describe the many new facilities available in the building without comment on the architectural character of the structure. Letter columns can be a little livelier, but even here architectural commentary tends to be light.5 In Sweden, public response to buildings is relatively common although not universal—​ a new town hall (as in Halmstad) can trigger the production of a newspaper supplement, letters to the editor, and even comments from imported experts. In other instances, as at Ludvika, the local press can be almost silent. For reasons of professional discretion, disputes between architects are generally kept out of the newspapers (though not always), but even so, councilors, the public at large, and people of importance (merchants, educational leaders, museum directors) have been known to ambush new designs in many places. One wonders how the building committee or the architects for the city hall in Norwich (1935–38) reacted to the letter of Lady Boileau. “Anyone who has an eye in their head which does not squint can see that everything which is wrong is to be found in the curious erection which now dominates the Old Market Place. It is Norwich’s memorial to extravagance and mediocrity.”6 Someone was probably dispatched to calm her ladyship. In fact, some percentage of society could probably be expected to object to some part of any design. Writing in 1930, Herman Leitensdorfer, architect of the Technisches Rathaus in Munich (the main city public-​works office) added a four-​line poem to his presentation: “One admires it / The second ridicules it / The third thinks about it / What does it matter” (Der Eine acht’s, / Der Andre verlacht’s, / Der Dritte betracht’s, / Was macht’s).7 What makes the history of the reception of Asplund’s courthouse extension so interesting is that it represents one of the rare cases in 124

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which leading cultural figures in a community, who might have been expected to understand the building, lined up against a newly completed civic structure.8 Led by Handelstidningen, the campaign gained strength precisely because the source of the complaint was not at the political extremes but from the preeminent liberal newspaper in Sweden. The evidence it gathered was not from Mr. Medelsvensson (Mr. Average Swede) but from an educated elite who might have been expected to support novelty and advance the modern cause. Uniting traditionalists (who would have naturally opposed any modern building) with that elite, the newspaper managed to drain support for the building and its architect. Between approximately the middle of 1935 and April 1937, around 150 separate articles ran in newspapers in Gothenburg and Stockholm on the subject of the new building—​the majority either skeptical or in opposition.9 The resistance to the courthouse extension by the population of Gothenburg is one of the most familiar tropes about the building and has been taken as univocal largely because of the judgment by Hakon Ahlberg in his essay for the volume published by the Swedish Architects Society to commemorate Asplund’s death. The Swedish edition of this book was published in 1943, and seven years later an English edition appeared. Ahlberg was quite definitive in his assessment of the opinion of the city concerning Asplund’s building: “Almost to a man the people of Gothenburg repudiated the work.” He went on to analyze the response: Wherein lay the reason for the heated criticism? The new building could hardly be accused of standing out aggressively. It is discreet in its architecture, it does not compete with its older neighbours.

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Possibly to start with it did stand out rather light and distinct in colour before it was repainted. Was it the cubic effect, produced by the absence of cornice and the weakly articulated smooth surface that upset these people? If so, the building could point to an older neighbour which—​though in less pronounced degree—​has the same properties. It was therefore on the whole not only a finely balanced but also a rather inoffensive building that Asplund had put down with care by the side of the old Courthouse. Why then the commotion? That will always be a mystery.10 Untangling this mystery offers a window onto a provincial citizenry protesting the presence of a new modernist building on their beloved town square, to be sure, but it also has something to contribute to our understanding of the status of architectural authority, about the relationship of architect and public, and about the role of the public press. Public Reaction: Torgny Segerstedt and Handelstidningen The first reports suggesting that the new façade would meet resistance came on 22 October 1936. Under the headline “Courthouse Unveiled” (and accompanied by a three-​column photograph), an unsigned article in Handelstidningen described the new building:

It is unfortunate that one cannot say that the architect has succeeded in his effort to unite the new and the old into a handsome unified image. As it now appears, it has the strong impression of patchwork, and the addition seems an arbitrary and an incongruous appendage. What strikes the eyes first is the arrangement of the windows.

The small openings in the upper row seem to have been a failure, like the high French windows with their small balconies, which look like radiators when one stands back. The glaring color that makes up the new building further gives the impression of foreignness and incompetence.11 The placement of this story was improbable. Of all the newspapers in the city, Göteborgs handels- och sjöfartstidning, or Handelstidningen (1832–1973), was the least likely to register shock or surprise over cultural novelty. Under its distinguished editor Torgny Segerstedt (editor, 1917–45), also an expert in comparative religion, it had become the preferred newspaper of Sweden’s cosmopolitan business and intellectual classes—​its influence national in scope. Segerstedt had studied religion at the University of Lund and the University of Uppsala before beginning a teaching career at Stockholm’s högskolan (the predecessor to Stockholm University). He was the first person in Sweden to write a dissertation on the history of religion, but his doctoral dissertation on the origins of polytheism, presented in 1903, was rejected for its lack of respect for orthodox beliefs. This experience marked Segerstedt the editor. His first job outside the university (1914) was as editor of Forum, a liberal weekly sponsored by the publisher Karl Otto Bonnier, and soon after he arrived in Gothenburg, the principal lines of his editorial stance became clear.12 First and foremost, Segerstedt took the long view. Whether it was the history of the ancient world, the religious experiences of the early Christians, or the power of nature, Segerstedt typically placed contemporary experience in the broadest of contexts.13 He put his political faith not in parties or factions but in the institutions created by free people over time. A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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He admired great men (notably the banker Marcus Wallenberg) and was suspicious of popular movements, the passions of crowds, and radical change.14 Handelstidningen was distinguished from all other Swedish newspapers for its lengthy page 3 essay-​commentaries, pioneered by Segerstedt and written by a distinguished and varied team of collaborators. Each column on page 3 focused on an aspect of literature, politics, history, philosophy, art, or music: an essay on recent classical music in London or Berlin could be flanked by one on the archaeology of ancient Greece; a column on the politics of Italy could be set against one on the origins of the English novel.15 The paper was liberal in politics and international in outlook. But underlying its judgments was a stern morality that went back to Segerstedt’s early training in religion. The cabaret-​revue singer Karl Gerhard (1891–1964), a friend of Segerstedt’s, described him as “God’s Prophet” and the newspaper as “God’s branch office.”16 Segerstedt’s prescient warnings about National Socialism have given him heroic standing in today’s Sweden. His image of Gothenburg was, however, austere. Dominated by its weather, it was a city of work. “There is no notable component of strolling or idleness. Entertainment venues do not dominate the cityscape. The idle rich do not seek out commercial cities like Gothenburg. . . . A little bit of the mountains’ astringency is found in lifestyles and mindsets.”17 Either through his daily column (I dag), through editorials, or through collaborators such as Birger Beckman or, on occasion, Axel Romdahl, Segerstedt made the newspaper a guardian of what he saw as the city’s traditions, not because he cared for one architectural style over another but because he thought, like Edmund Burke (whom he admired), that tradition, having formed itself over time, was a value 126

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that needed to be respected. Handelstidningen, therefore, had opinions about changes to the city buildings (“without consideration to their character or style”); about the Gothenburg Jubilee Exhibition (opposed); about Kämpebron, the new bridge across Stora Hamnkanalen rebuilt in 1925 (unsuitable for the site); about the development on Gustaf Adolf square (expressed through Axel Romdahl in 1926); and most especially about the arrangements on Götaplatsen, where the newspaper favored a looser style of architectural planning and made every effort to insert Segerstedt’s friend, the architect Ragnar Östberg, into the design process at the last minute.18 And there were other positions offered. In 1935 Handelstidningen had been jubilant over Eriksson’s concert hall.19 In 1938 Segerstedt fretted over the possible destruction of the old-​fashioned Lorensberg Theater and changes to Järntorget.20 By 1925 Segerstedt’s engagement with architecture had already come to the attention of Karl Gerhard, whose Sommar revy had the following lyrics about Segerstedt: Herr Segerstedt is a mighty genius All concentrated in one person . . . He writes to the right, he writes to the left He does art and architecture too . . . 21 Two years before removal of the scaffolding from the façade of the courthouse extension, Segerstedt had written a striking editorial (described in chapter 2) in which he set out the need to respect the historic character of Gustaf Adolf square; the editor was making a point about the site of the new addition that, by implication, carried a warning. While openly political organs (like Vidi) might carry their followers, might even mobilize a pressure group inside the city, the opinion of the

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Handelstidningen resonated well outside Gothenburg. In assembling its critique of Asplund’s building, the newspaper mobilized experts. “Catastrophe, Unfortunate, Dreadful—​Sharp Criticism Against the New Court House” read the headline on 23 October 1936, and the following commentary included opinions from authorities with modernist credentials: Knut Ström (1887–1971), the set designer and director of Gothenburg’s city theater; the painter Tor Bjurström (1888–1966), one of the founders of the Gothenburg Color School of painting and director of the konsthall, the contemporary wing of the art museum; and Siri Wikander-​Brunander (1876–1947), a member of the city council and a medical doctor involved with projects for sex education and children’s health.22 Each was the kind of culturally sophisticated resident that might have been expected to appreciate Asplund’s design. Each had reservations and criticism. For Ström, the building was an aesthetic failure: “For my part, I can . . . only characterize it with a single word: catastrophe. One cannot even look to that side of Gustaf Adolf square.” Ström had hoped that concrete construction would work well, but the result has been a failure. “Actually, the architect’s use of concrete is very interesting, but in this case the result has really failed. When a building like that is uninspired and also lacks the camouflage that tradition and experience provide, the effect will be completely catastrophic.”23 Bjurström thought the whole relation between new and old a failure. The finished extension was “totally isolated from the other buildings. If one looks at the Thule Building opposite the new courthouse, there the architect has succeeded with a window organization on the surface that goes well with the style of the whole [square]. But the entire

window arrangement in the new courthouse is a complete failure, as are the proportions and other aspects.” Wikander-​Brunander thought that “to place such a new building next to the beautiful old courthouse shows, in my opinion, a total lack of feeling for style.”24 The headline of 24 October, the following day, was equally gloomy: “Judgment of Courthouse Seems Unanimous.” The newspaper expanded the range of experts: Sven Ohlon (1888–1972), Romdahl, and Gustaf Munthe (1896–1962). Ohlon was the superintendent of schools in Gothenburg; trained as a physicist, he was the author of a number of science textbooks and a popular brochure on taxation that went into numerous editions. Ohlon was also a member of the Gothenburg City Council (1931–38) and numerous boards and civic organizations.25 Ohlon called the building a “complete scandal—​one of the most tragic that has occurred in Gothenburg in recent years. If I had to pick out something that was particular ugly, I would name the color and the windows. Those last named correspond well to their function on the inside, but from the outside their arrangement is, to say the least, illogical.”26 More complex and more significant were the opinions of the other two interviewees. Romdahl, the director of the art museum, described it as a “hopeless failure”: “When closely scrutinizing the new parts of the courthouse, one can clearly trace the architect’s attempt simultaneously to retain basic traits of the style of the old building and to represent them in a modern form, though he has completely and totally failed. The only thing one could now do would be to move the ivy from the courtyard to the façade in order to moderate the unpleasant effect.”27 Gustaf Munthe, director of the Röhsska Museum of Decorative Art, called it “terrible—​among the absolute A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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worst I have seen. . . . I find the roofline and those tiny holes in the upper story especially ugly. A building in the purely modern style that had completely broken with the old courthouse would need no justification. But now we have neither one thing nor the other.”28 On the same day a poem by “H.D.” (H. Dahlqvist), the newspaper’s “poet” (long a standard position on many newspapers), mocked the building’s modernism. In “On account of the Courthouse’s ‘Garage Building’ ” the poet’s first verse set out the problem: “I saw a frightful picture in the GHT, / A shocking box in the new ‘style,’ / Destroyed the old square’s profile, / More styleless can one scarcely see.” Three more stanzas continued the same theme.29 From Handelstidningen the story now spread to the rest of the press with the language somewhat coarser and judgment more severe: the conservative Göteborgs morgonpost headlined its story “The Scandal House,” a phrase that became the standard popular term for the building thereafter in the press.30 Cartoons satirized the building, its architect, and the council, and letters to the editors of the newspapers and interviews exploded with popular resentment at the building (fig. 103).31 Previously, as one writer admitted, there was no particular reason to stand around on Gustaf Adolf square; now it was a pilgrimage site for curiosity seekers keen to see the “scandal house.”32 After meditating extensively on the kind of plant that would be appropriate for the façade, “Emte,” writing in Morgontidningen, reported a common judgment: “ ‘Tear it down to the ground,’ says an opinion that grows stronger from day to day from Utbynäs to Nya Varvet” (two areas of Gothenburg at either end of the Göta).33 Echoing the pattern established by Handelstidningen, newspapers interviewed their own

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Figure 103 “New Fears,” a cartoon that captures onlookers studying the new courthouse building as the scaffolding is removed. From Göteborgs-​tidningen, 27 October 1936, p. 2.

“experts.” The actor and revue singer Ludde Gentzel (1885–1963), introduced in the Social Democratic newspaper Ny tid as the person who represented “tradition” in Gothenburg, expressed, so the article said, what many felt: “It’s frightful! I had a pain in my chest when I saw it. It was as if someone had punched me under the belt. A total knockout. Cross my heart. What have they done?”34 Others went into the specific forms that constituted, in their eyes, the building’s failure. Thus, for Viktor

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Wångfelt (1887–1949), a member of the building committee (and someone with construction experience as a board member of Gothenburg’s folkskolan), the building’s lack of a cornice was the critical failure.35 For others, it was not the modernism alone that was necessarily the problem, but modernism on Gustaf Adolf square. “Håce,” in Göteborgs-​tidningen, thought that Asplund had either built the wrong building there or built the building correctly but for the wrong place—​perhaps it should have been for Götaplatsen.36 The sculptor Fritz Bange (1885–1959) recalled complaints about Kämpebron, but the problem here was different: “It is lamentable that funkis stepped into Gustaf Adolf square. The time will certainly come soon when it will become out of fashion and it will stand there and look ugly next to Tessin’s masterwork.” Ironically—​and the irony must have been a bitter one for Asplund—​Bange went on to praise the new courthouse addition in the southern town of Kristianstad, where he noted a similar problem: “But there one truly succeeded in building an addition, which, despite being modern, truly harmonized with the old.”37 (The irony was that the architects of the Kristianstad Courthouse addition were Erik and Tore Ahlsén, Asplund’s assistants. Tore Ahlsén had “won” the in-​office competition for the façade of the Gothenburg extension and then, effectively, recycled it at Kristianstad, where Asplund had been on the jury.) Asplund’s Response Given the source of the complaints and their public resonance, Asplund had to speak out. He replied through two of the newspapers: the Social Democratic Ny tid (25 October), where for reasons of political sympathy he might expect a receptive hearing, and

Handelstidningen (26 October), the newspaper that had launched the attacks and through which he could expect to speak to the audience across Sweden that mattered most to him. In both, Asplund invited his critics to wait for the completion of the building.38 To Ny tid he observed that Gothenburg was an industrial city and that the patina would equalize, and he accepted the idea of marking the joint with ivy. “Above all, I myself am not yet pleased with it. . . . There are many details that will be changed and completed before everything is finished. There are decorations, issues around the colors, lighting, and so on. For the time being, the new sits hard against the old, and I am not at all happy with that now.” And he invited his critics to return on a sunny day in a couple of weeks or six months to “stand next to me and consider the building. We will take our hats off to it—​at least I will.”39 In Handelstidningen, his comments were more extensive. He explained what was missing and why: An important element with which I had planned to enrich the “meagre” façade was sculpture that should have had its place on a socle close to the corner of Köpmans­ gatan. There is a beautiful proposal in a model, but the Lindberg Foundation said no to our request for a subvention, a strange step by the committee active in subsidizing the preparation of so beautiful a proposal as can be found in the model. The building plans also included several other elements that will enrich and soften the façade, among which brackets for street lighting that will protrude from both the new and the old courthouse. My proposal is also to arrange lighting along the Exchange

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Building wall so that the entire square will have a more festive nighttime appearance.40 He also offered more rigorously architectural commentary, framing his defense in overlapping narratives. For example, his account of the matching process entailed explicit rejection of any competition with the old building: “naturally I will not participate in some sort of competition with its monumental character. On the contrary, I considered that that ought to be marked by placing next to it something from our own period’s disposition, connected but not competing with the older building.” Rather, he was interested in the dialogue between the buildings around the square. “Look at the adjacent buildings along the square—​it is no loss that the Exchange Building and the Guards Building [i.e., the city hall] both speak of their own time’s building ideal; isn’t that what gives life to the square?” Another narrative, architecturally more complex, recalled the original competition entry with the procession running south to north: “In large part the new courthouse is a U-​shaped body with its foot toward Köpmansgatan. The main façade represents the main entry and where the inner organization meets the arterial passage’s lightest side. What looks toward the square is only a side façade.” A further narrative thread provided a functionalist motive for certain decisions. Thus, “large light openings” in the façade marked the most important courtrooms and looked toward what he called “la Grand Place.” “These large windows don’t sit in the middle of the new façade; rather, they are closer to the square side’s center point and in their own way indicate that the processional center of gravity and main weight rest in the older building, which is thus further emphasized.” Finally, addressing the small doors with their narrow balconies (that had 130

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been criticized by some readers), he justified their presence as a “convenient place on festive occasions to open a door out toward the life around the square and the canal and allow that atmosphere to mix with the serious air of the courtroom.”41 In the next phase of the controversy Handelstidningen turned to an architectural expert. Nils Einar Eriksson (1899–1978) had been Asplund’s collaborator at the Stockholm Exhibition and designer of two popular Gothenburg buildings, the concert hall at Götaplatsen and the Thule Building on Gustaf Adolf square (completed 1936). “Asplund’s Baby a Problem Child in the Family of the Square, but a Child with Character Thinks Nils Einar Eriksson” ran the headline, and his commentary echoed Segerstedt’s and Handelstidningen’s respect for tradition. Eriksson recalled the vision of Sixten Strömbom and Camillo Sitte. The buildings around the square contributed to its urban effect, and Eriksson considered each a member of a family. The Exchange Building (“a feminine beauty”), the city hall (“a clumsy snub-​nosed plump woman, but rosy cheeked and good humored”), the Wenngren Building (“a proper official who will not make a show or talk about himself”). “And finally the old courthouse, worthy, self-​conscious, and with as much grandezza as a mighty Swedish man can muster.” But Eriksson doubted that any one of them could stand up to a rigorous examination by a style-​conscious art historian. The Exchange would be marked “eclectic,” the Guards Building would be deemed barely worth an opinion, the Government Mortgage Building (Wenngren Building) would get an ordinary B grade, and the courthouse would be faulted for having a heavy upper body in its central section standing on too feeble legs. “But for all that, together they create a family group; despite their wide

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differences in age, they create a healthy, lively, and pleasant family group. Why? Because each member is a character.” Eriksson came now to Asplund’s courthouse extension: “And now there stands Asplund’s baby, not quite like the others, a youth with his own look. Perhaps he is a little bit of a problem child, barely awake, with big eyes and a newborn’s red complexion. But those are details that rectify over time—​one can already tell that this is an intelligent child—​ it will certainly grow into a character who enriches the family a lot.”42 Eriksson also read Asplund’s building in musical terms, appropriately enough for the architect of the concert hall. “There are, after all,” he noted, “people who like both Hindemith and Beethoven.”43 It was not an idle reference. One week earlier, the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra had played a concert of three works in the new concert hall: Ludwig von Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony, Johann Sebastian Bach’s Sixth Brandenburg Concerto, and Paul Hindemith’s Philharmonic Concerto, or Variations for Orchestra (1932), which sat between the two older works. Reviewers such as Knut Bäck, writing in Göteborgs-​ posten, noted that this “ultramodern experiment was placed in between two classic master builders,” and even interpreted the concert in architectural terms that echoed the debates about Asplund’s extension: “The line from the baroque to today’s funkis in the art of music can be plainly perceived.”44 In a city devoted to music (had not Asplund entitled his original competition entry “Andante”?), Eriksson’s commentary stood firmly on ground that had already been established in the public realm. Debates in the Cit y Council The public debate stirred by Handelstidningen then moved to the city council. Opposition to the façade spread across the political parties.

“The city’s appearance is not a party issue. The city’s appearance,” as “—​x.” wrote in Handelstidningen, is “something that concerns those who live and reside in town.”45 Some councilors at the council meeting of 29 October wanted to alter the façade, though how that would be done was not clear, and in the discussion that followed, as Göteborgs-​tidningen concluded, “Professor Asplund did not have an easy time.”46 One councilor, the conservative Adolf Borén (a banker in private life), offered a motion requesting that “the city council take under consideration whether the majority should or could undertake such a modification to transform the courthouse-​extension façade toward Gustaf Adolf square into some different form to conform with the general character of the place.”47 Two weeks later the city architect Karl Samuelsson detailed the history of the project and the series of agreements that had brought the building to its current state. Although many on the city building commission had opposed the shift in the windows, Samuelsson noted that the commission could not mandate changes based on aesthetic grounds. Thus, as Samuelsson observed, since the architect was a distinguished practitioner, it would hardly be appropriate to cause him to renounce responsibility for the design. Samuelsson concluded, “Even if a change can be made, I believe, therefore, in light of the above, it should not be made without the architect’s participation.”48 Gerdt Stendhal, the city’s real-​estate architect and professional adviser attached to the courthouse building committee, also concluded that the architect’s intentions should be respected.49 Asplund himself was brief: “I find that the façade by and large accurately and in a good way corresponds to the building’s inner disposition and construction; I find that it with great reverence A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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highlights the old courthouse building; and I am completely confident that after its completion it will be in harmony with and interact well with the square in general.” Only with the completion of the reliefs at the upper level and the placement of the sculpture at the corner of Köpmansgatan would he take full responsibility for the façade.50 It was a trap from which the council could not exit, and for all intents and purposes the possibility of altering the façade died there.51 Asplund’s vigorous defense, that the building was incomplete, was problematic. We may never know why money could not be found for the façade sculpture: did the façade simply appear unworthy to the agencies that might have funded it? It might seem odd that private funding was not sought (so far as I know), but apart from the potential difficulty of mixing public and private funds, perhaps Handelstidningen had succeeded in souring public opinion on Asplund’s façade. Public Reaction: Stockholm It seems unlikely that the spicy story of Asplund’s courthouse-​extension façade would have moved from the newspapers in Gothenburg to the newspapers in Stockholm had not its protagonist been a prominent resident of the city and the newspaper leading the attack (Handelstidningen) been one that was well read in the capital. In Stockholm, the left-​leaning Dagens nyheter covered the story on the front page (3 November 1936) with a large black headline: “Gothenburgers in Revolt Against Asplund’s Courthouse Extension.” The journalist interviewed three experts who had already given their opinion in the Gothenburg press—​ Romdahl, Munthe, Bjurström—​and added Uno Åhrén, the city’s head of planning. The first three repeated criticisms they had made in 132

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Gothenburg or echoed the criticisms made by others.52 Only Åhrén offered any support for the design: “The main thing is that the mass of a new building in an old environment doesn’t disrupt—​that the cube is subordinate to the square’s unity, as this one is. The details then become restrained. I think the noise about all this is exaggerated and unnecessary. I suppose the reason is that the residents of Gothenburg have very few new buildings. They are unfamiliar with something that breaks with older buildings.” Åhrén then proceeded to criticize Nils Einar Eriksson’s Thule Building across the square, a building he noted that people in Gothenburg seemed to like: it was, in his opinion, much more discordant with the rest of the square than Asplund’s new building.53 That observation set off another cascade of criticism. “Emte” commented in Morgontidningen that he had now discovered a new law of nature: whatever Åhrén said, the opposite was true: “When unanimous opinion condemns the courthouse building, Mr. Åhrén thinks the courthouse building good, and when the general opinion has only praise for the Thule Building, Mr. Å. thinks that building a failure. . . . No [rather than create a board to oversee the aesthetic character of new buildings,] the only reasonable thing to do would be to ask Mr. Åhrén—​and then do the opposite.”54 Things were getting out of hand. Again Asplund had to defend the building—​ but now in Stockholm, where the stakes were slightly higher.55 He chose the major quality newspapers for his response: Dagens nyheter and the more conservative Svenska dagbladet. Two musical analogies framed his defense. In Dagens nyheter he described a musician who left out every fifth note when playing a piece of music. A comparable thing had happened in Gothenburg; a judgment was being

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made about the courthouse without taking into consideration the “fifth note.” And what was the “fifth note”? The “fifth note” was a series of details that would, he explained, soften the façade: painting the window frames, matching the color of the façades, and installing glass sculpture in the windows designated for it. Striking back at his critics, he called the general level of criticism “like something out of Grönköping,” a reference to a fictional provincial town satirized originally by the magazine Söndags-​nisse and later in its own “newspaper,” Grönköpings veckoblad.56 He took special aim at the “authoritative” critics the newspapers in Gothenburg had interviewed, and once again the quality of commentary was relatively high: “Here’s a number of educated people who talk about a building they have never been in, a building whose façade they discuss exactly as if it were just a freestanding pattern, as if the different elements could be gathered much like the little flowers a craftswoman works into her embroidery. Some men stand there on the square pondering whether there should be a doorway or not? There should be a doorway, says Dr. Munthe. There shouldn’t be a door, says Mr. Bjurström. The simple question, ‘Is there a need for an entrance, does the plan demand an entrance?’ never appears for a second in this grandiose reasoning.”57 And to the Dagens nyheter journalist he explained how decisions about window sizes responded to specific functional needs within the building—​ offering, in short, a brief lesson in architectural design. On the same day, in Svenska dagbladet, one the largest-​circulation Stockholm daily newspapers, Asplund again explained that the building was not yet finished, and he counseled patience, inviting his critics to join him some sunny morning the following spring for an “Invitation to the Dance” on Gustaf Adolf

square in front of the completed building.58 This playful and rather sophisticated musical analogy to Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826) suggested that though the initial meeting might be somewhat tentative and uncertain, as in the music, over time the relationship might develop to the point of love.59 Interviewed in his office at the Royal Institute of Technology, Asplund described the anonymous letters he had received. The interviewer (“Chevalier”) asked to see copies. “Too bad that I didn’t think to save them earlier. It would have been something to flip through in my old age. With notes starting with ‘Shame on you / Naughty, naughty dear “funkis” professor’ and ‘Abolish Asplund.’ ‘The functionalist box dominates (already); already my first name was rebaptised “Funke” when addressing the letters.’ ” He lamented the closed-​minded attitude among many Swedish people. “Don’t let him speak,” someone in the audience at a meeting he attended had said, “We know exactly what he’ll say.”60 In the same newspaper the columnist “Hasse Z” (Hasse Zetterström) suggested that Asplund’s extension was just revenge from Stockholm for the much-​disliked Parliament building, known as the special initiative of the Gothenburg businessman Pehr Lithander (1835–1913).61 On the same day “Colomba,” the pseudonym of the journalist Eva von Zweigbergk (daughter of the journalist and publisher Edvard Alkman), observed, “God forgive Asplund, who dared to build funkis on Gustaf Adolf square! That horrible courthouse is on everyone’s lips.”62 Public Reaction: Gothenburg Again As passions cooled the following week, the most interesting comments came from the Social Democratic left, who recognized Asplund as one of their own or the building as A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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something that had attempted to capture their ideals and needed defense. On 8 November the journalist Torsten Frendberg (writing under the pseudonym “Tor.”), who had special interests in architecture, offered a minority opinion. “The Courthouse Is Good” was the headline for an article in the Social Democratic newspaper Ny tid explaining how the façade worked well with the surroundings. After the first outcries in the press about the poor architect and his building, we hurried to Gustaf Adolf square to inspect the “catastrophic” public building. And a remarkable thing happened: not only were we unable to work up any indignation, but we were surprised at how well the new building fit into the square and its surrounding. . . . As a precaution, we did not dare tell anyone before having taken yet another look. After thorough consideration and after having returned there to look at Asplund’s building yet one more time without experiencing any aesthetic discomfort, we have decided to state that we find the new courthouse façade toward the square to be very successful.63 Frendberg rallied other Social Democratic supporters, and in response to the debates that took place in early November in the city council, Sven Andersson (1910–1987), then at the beginning of a distinguished career as a Social Democratic organizer and politician, announced that so far as he was concerned, “both the building on Avenyn [around which had swirled an earlier controversy due to its modern style] and the new courthouse extension are beautiful.”64 Johan Söderberg, another Social Democrat, in the same debate, supported his colleague: it was, he said, “necessary 134

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that the old and the new be mixed together. One could always take photographs of old buildings and preserve them in that way.”65 Later they were joined by a further Social Democratic councilman, Artur Fagerberg, whose aesthetic expectations may not have been met by the new building but could nonetheless say, “I am blasphemous enough to say that I think the courthouse extension good. It is good above all from the point of view that it serves its purpose. It offers a very good place to work, and the building is so formed that during their workday the employees have abundant access to fresh air as well as sun and light.” Fagerberg noted that workers in other communal offices were jealous of those in the courthouse.66 Perhaps as a sign of a softening, Siri Wikander-​ Brunander, who had already criticized the building, now took a calmer tone. In a commentary for Morgontidningen she wrote, “It is very possible that the building in and of itself could be called, if not exactly beautiful, at least tolerable.” Even so, she was distressed “to place beside our beautiful old courthouse and in the heart of the city a building that in style differs so completely from its distinguished neighbor, [that] cannot but make the local patriot of Gothenburg feel grief.” In her critique of the development of the city, the new courthouse building had a comparatively small place; it represented one of a number of regrettable decisions that had transformed the city for the worse. Commercial buildings, with their illuminated signs, troubled her most of all. Gustav Adolfsdagen depended for its effect on the contrast between the darkened city and the illuminated torches of the marchers, on the feeling for tradition in what was a city largely without the patina of age.67 The interior posed fewer problems for visitors.68 On Asplund’s death the obituarist for

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the conservative Göteborgs morgonpost was blunt in his assessment of the exterior façade (“almost repellent”), but of the interior the writer was practically enthusiastic: “a peculiarly enchanting interior.”69 Visitors puzzled over the size of the main hall. “It is as big as a movie theater. But one could always hold parties there,” wrote a journalist in Ny tid.70 Humor could always be found (e.g., fig. 104). Anxiety about the openness of the window wall facing the old courthouse courtyard was a strong concern. It exposed those on the inside to the gaze of those on the outside, revealing all equally, even in sensitive domestic cases, as Handelstidningen noted.71 Six months later the socialist councilman Gustaf Adolf Hellers described his sense of the great hall: “On entering the building the impression is that you have boarded a transatlantic liner, and one barely knows where to turn in this great desolate hall.” He regretted the expense, to be sure, but mostly he regretted the sense of exposure. “The elevator is covered with plate glass, and the elevator cage is transparent, so that you can see the people riding up and down from head to foot. If this arrangement is made out of sentimental reasons, I don’t know.”72 Others, however, thought the contrast with the dark nooks and corners of the old building would come as a relief. They would greet the new building “with joy.”73 One writer in Handelstidningen, however, took a piece of functionalist misinterpretation (that every judge’s room would have its own special wallpaper) to weave an elaborate fantasy about how, when sailors came for trial, the rooms would fill up with water and the parties would have to row into the room.74 Some were impressed with the variety of the decorations.75 Others praised the comfortable furniture, “designed by the architect himself,” and were amazed by the electric hand dryers for the

general public in the bathrooms. The first court cases were heard in the middle of December 1936 and passed without incident or extensive commentary.76 The newspapers announced the opening of the café in the winter of 1937 with an invitation to the public to order an omelet, a sandwich, baked goods, coffee, tea, and hot chocolate and to travel up the elevator to experience the view over the city.77 Opposition hung on, a public leitmotif, a running joke that everyone understood. The most creative commentary came on 1 April 1937, when Carl Johan Holzhausen (1900– 1999), later a noted author of science fiction, writing under the name of “Münchhausen,” confected an April Fool’s story for Göteborgs morgonpost (fig. 105). Headlined “The Courthouse Building to Be Demolished: The Façade Is Upside Down,” the story told how the terrible mistake had been made: According to what Göteborgs morgonpost has learned, Mr. Asplund himself has now closely inspected the building and has come to the astounding conclusion that the façade has been turned around so that it is now standing upside down. . . . It turned out that a delivery boy named August had moved some drawings from the professor’s drafting table, so he could eat his breakfast sandwiches. When the drawings were put back, one of them was turned around, which was not discovered by the professor because of temporary fatigue. He wrote “Göteborgs Rådhusfasad” [Gothenburg Courthouse façade] on them, sent off the entire pack, collected his reward, and settled down. The people of Gothenburg have been generally discontented, and the defendants in three much-​discussed cases have refused to be tried in, as they have A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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Figure 104 Cartoon showing Asplund as a criminal, manacled and with a ball attached to his foot, sitting on a bench with nails projecting from the seat. When Asplund won the competition for a crematorium at Kviberg, near Gothenburg, his victory provided an opportunity to comment on the interiors, about which feelings were complicated. Next to Asplund stands a “modernized” judge (with the courthouse extension and a Swedish flag on his head). In the conversation between the two men in the foreground, the one says, “How long will Asplund sit accused?” to which the other replies, “It will be a while now—​since he is up for another trip.” In the background, a woman inspecting the chairs exclaims, “What the devil, old grandmother’s wicker chair!” Further back, two elevators mock Asplund’s functionalism: the large one is for those who have committed major offenses, and the smaller one for those who have committed minor offenses. From Göteborgs-​ tidningen, 20 November 1936, p. 1.

expressed it, such a box of horror. Professor Romdahl has lost his appetite and professor Asplund has lost a couple of important jobs . . . and even lost 2 kg in weight. August the delivery boy has been fired. “At first I was very surprised over the criticism,” says Mr. Asplund in our interview, “and I have had to defend myself forcefully against charges. . . . Now I

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completely understand the critique. . . . Yet what I can’t understand is that nobody during the building process realized that the façade was turned upside down. The old courthouse section as well as the façades of the Exchange Building and the other buildings have to be torn down and redone in the same style as my extension. We will place a dozen statues to the left and the right of

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the extension and then cover everything with ivy.”78 Frustration over the façade (as reflected in the commentary of figure 106) remained intense enough for the city council meeting in April 1937 to return to the same rhetoric of the autumn. As Göteborgs-​tidningen headlined their report, “Even the Walls Had Begun to Cry.”79 As sustained debate around the building faded from the daily press, each new decision concerning its completion stirred the opponents. Plans for the placement of lighting across the façades in April 1937 (when the cables had been laid) provoked comments about the misfortune of having to see the façade not only by day but also by night!80 Torgny Segerstedt puzzled over what was supposed to be exposed with the lighting. The street? The square? The building itself?81 Councilman Hellers returned to the attack. The early proposals, he lamented, recalled a manor house with its neighboring farmhands’ quarters, but the current building was more like a warehouse, “a building of lower class,” and he renewed his complaints about the interiors.82 In the meanwhile, Asplund had won a competition for the crematorium in Gothenburg (noted in the newspapers of 20 November 1936), and others wondered how it was possible that the city could think of employing Asplund again.83 The need to pay for the glass reliefs by Erik Grate fell to the city council in October 1937, and that led to renewed criticism of the building.84 The debate, now more comic than serious, offered councilors the chance to excoriate Asplund for his wish to disguise his failure with sculpture. Some voted for underwriting the sculpture since anything was better than what was there; others opposed the

Figure 105 “Above: the upside-​down façade, with the cellar apertures near the roof. In the middle: August, the apprentice who turned the drawing upside down. Below: the expert commission makes suggestions for the most effective demolition procedures.” From Göteborgs morgonpost, 1 April 1937, p. 1.

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Figure 106 “In the Spirit of Self-​Sacrifice. Professor Asplund will not change the courthouse façade.” In the background, one person comments, “Wonderful,” while another runs away, possibly holding his nose. In the foreground, one man says, “Keep in mind that he can’t change that horrible façade,” to which his companion replies, “Well no, but if I had Asplund within reach, I’d change his façade.” From Göteborgs-​tidningen, 18 March 1937, p. 1.

costs on the ground that it was throwing good money after bad. As reported in the newspapers, Councilman Hellers again used the occasion to complain—​this time about the toilets: “During the debate on the artistic decorations Mr. Hellers busied himself over the bathroom 138

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arrangements for the general public, which he described as scandalous. One can see the legs of those ‘who are inside,’ and the protection is no higher than here, and Mr. Hellers struck his breast.” To explain this comment, the journalist added, “It is to be understood that

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Mr. Hellers is an unusually tall and stately person. He might do well to squat.”85 Support for the glass reliefs (ultimately executed in stone) was barely sufficient for the motion to pass, 29 in favor, 26 against.86 Later, the judges in Gothenburg decided not to hold an inauguration for the building. Bernhard Lindberg, who had retired by then, thought this a “ridiculous” decision, whatever one’s feelings about the façade, but the goal was not to “awaken further criticism.”87 A note in Handelstidningen (20 May 1939), while praising the booklet produced to commemorate the construction (“The Courthouse Building in Beautiful Publication”), concluded with a single-​sentence paragraph: “It has now been definitively decided that no celebratory inauguration ceremony will be held for the building.”88 Handelstidningen had controlled public space. In fact, the effects of the protests led by the newspaper were much greater. Asplund’s reputation had certainly been stained. He won the commission for the Gothenburg crematorium, but ridicule of that project started immediately, and had he not died in 1940, it is not clear whether he would have built that or any other new building in the city. More troubling, the newspaper (and its allies) had left the impression that it was not worth contributing to this “scandal house,” and whether the decision not to provide sculpture for the façade was made independently or in accord with Romdahl and the Lindberg Foundation, the newspaper’s scorched-​earth policy ensured that nothing more would be done to rescue the façade. Segerstedt kept Asplund’s name before the public even after the crisis point had passed: criticizing an attitude as much as a person. In one column (14 April 1937), concerning Asplund’s proposal for lighting the façade and the square, the editor described the architect as

someone who was “used to imposing his way,” and in another column (15 January 1938), on the state of the Lorensberg Theater, Segerstedt opined that while it needed modernization, it should not lose its patina, and he warned in a resonant phrase that “Asplund and those iconoclasts should not be engaged in this case. One should find a nondogmatic gentleman, preferably one from Gothenburg.”89 Public Reaction: Professional Critics Where public criticism stopped (largely with the façade), professional criticism began. Most critics apparently accepted that the façade was incomplete and, perhaps out of respect, did not write about it. Instead, they turned to the interior, where they had a lot to say. Ragnar Josephson, the professor of art history from Lund University and an occasional collaborator at Handelstidningen, wrote a review for Svenska dagbladet under the title “Functionalist Aesthetic” (3 January 1938). The first page declared that “the artist Asplund has once again celebrated a triumph.” But Josephson puzzled at the nature of the interior as a public space. Its modernism left the visitor totally exposed:

A wonderfully open main hall, thus, but for whom? It is not built for vacationers at a posh swimming resort such as the Lido, who want to display their physiques while strolling on these well-​lit balconies. Nor is it built for a theater audience wishing to gaze at one another’s toilettes in the happy atmosphere of an open lobby several stories high. The main hall, in all its clear openness, is supposed to be for those who do not wish anything but not to be seen at all. It is made for the worried, the bitter, the tense, the upset, those full of regret. A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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Josephson then followed a young woman through the building: A woman in dark clothes is walking up the slim stairway bathed in light. Each and every heavy step she takes can be gazed upon from anywhere in the hall. She sits down at the balcony in her simple skirt, and probably never before has she exposed herself so prominently to anybody’s gaze. The hall also has good acoustics, and if she would suddenly voice her despair through loud expressions, not a single sound would be lost on the others waiting in the building. She enters the telephone booth in order to tell about the bad outcome; she is standing in the glass cage as in a display cage; and if one does not hear what she says, one can read it in her face, which can find no protection anywhere.90 In a review Uno Åhrén wrote for Form, the magazine of the Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts,91 he set out the problems Asplund had faced in uniting old and new, explaining the long process of development with sympathy. He had, after all, already defended Asplund’s design in the daily newspapers. He compared the openness of the new building to the oppressiveness of Stockholm’s courthouse: “The [latter] is characterized by a mightiness and gravity, an atmosphere of the castle, the ruling monarchy and bureaucracy, all of which appears impressive or devastating to the wretched souls that society governs here with a heavy hand.”92 The Gothenburg building is, he noted, “a democratic building,” and he admired the experience of climbing the stairs: “Certainly, one ascends a long flight of stairs to the main floor, the steps of which are adjusted to be so low and wide that a visitor 140

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must slow down his or her possibly hasty speed and move at an appropriately respectful speed when approaching the halls where the sinners are tried and sentenced.” But in other respects Åhrén was more critical of the interior: “When you go into the extension you pass first through a revolving door like that in some hotel lobby. Then you come into a large bright hall whose one side opens toward the old courtyard and whose three-​story traffic pattern brings you to the various offices. The impression of a hotel or some similar building will be what will stay with ordinary people.”93 His review concluded with his sharpest descriptive phrases. Although he recognized the democratic nature of the layout, he said of Asplund that he has something aristocratic in everything he does. Yes, this is probably true in the case of the courthouse, the urge to make the details a little too fine, a bit too elegant, even affected, clashes with the nature of the building. There is often a bit too much of a sense of something specially designed, a bit of the ingenious; the way the furniture is placed is a little too clever and exquisite, and so on. When you see ordinary people who come there, plodding along in their galoshes with their bowler hats and their mitts, the whole surrounding seems just a little too “refined.” [Åhrén employs an abbreviated version of the word sometimes used to evoke the louche world of interwar upper-​class society.]94 These were attacks to which Asplund was especially sensitive, for they singled out the balancing act he was trying to achieve: democracy and the law required openness, but public space need not be second-​class space. Moreover, the criticism came from voices whose

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opinions counted for something in the Swedish architectural world. He chose the unusual strategy of replying to both in the pages of the celebratory brochure published to commemorate the completion of the courthouse extension. The openness of the building was central to his intentions. It has been said by a critic that the interior is a work of art but that it has the character not of a law building but rather of a southern seaside resort. Here, he says, where people come waiting for a judgment, burdened with worries, the character should be more grave, heavier, more reserved. The aim has intentionally been the opposite: for precisely because people come here full of worry and anxiety, a friendly, sunny light has been admitted. It has been the conception of the architect that openness, sunshine, flowers—​overall humane, lighter than the closed, rigid, and formal—​can move one from discord and anxiety to reconciliation or, at least, resignation. With his full intention, therefore, the architect has tried to create a character where the public sphere in scale and arrangement combine with a certain everyday tone, with light and intimacy.95 Byggmästaren, the Swedish review of architecture, did not review the building, perhaps because of the controversy, perhaps because Asplund claimed the building was not finished. Asplund merely wrote a description of the building.96 In the end, we will never know exactly what so troubled Segerstedt about Asplund’s building. It would be wrong to describe him as a pigheaded provincial conservative and leave it at that. He had too subtle a mind. Though

he may have been troubled by the fashionable nature of modernism, he must have understood the way that Asplund tried to link old and new in the courthouse extension. Even if he could not see it himself, others in his circle could have explained how Asplund brought the new into harmony with the old. But it was not just the right angles and abstract shapes of modernism that troubled Segerstedt; by 1936 these were all too common. It seems unlikely that his objection was triggered merely by the arrival of modern architecture in the heart of the old city. Though he had in an editorial already laid down his determination to maintain the traditional character of the square, before Asplund’s designs had been made public, why did the construction of Eriksson’s Thule Building provoke no editorial reaction? Anyhow, once the building was in place, why not find a way to make peace with it? Or bring it to completion with sculpture? In his mind, what Asplund had done was something worse than a nuanced departure from tradition. What “those iconoclasts” had done was offer an ironic reinterpretation of tradition in the shifting grids of the façade. He had, in effect, undermined the truth of classicism on a building that was supposed to embody it. This was not a position Segerstedt could take lightly. Whimsy and irony were not in his arsenal, and in matters of state decorum they had no role whatsoever. In a newspaper commentary entitled “Humor’s Religion” (in Handelstidningen, 8 November 1933), he had explained the value of humor for life. It did not entail the satirical or the comic—​ two qualities that Asplund frequently mobilized in architecture.97 Skepticism, in particular, was hateful. It “adopts no worldview. It lives in a room without walls. It has its fixed point in the fragile place that is its own self.”98 Here, in addition to all the problems of old and new, A sp l und’s Rep u tat ion

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of paint color and window sizes, may be found a key to the innovative character of Asplund’s building and to the editor’s hostility. Coming to Terms Public expression of distaste for Asplund’s façade continued well into the 1950s. In his survey of Swedish architecture published in 1938, August Hahr, after expatiating upon Nils Einar Eriksson and the concert hall, had this to say about Asplund and the courthouse: “Before we leave Gothenburg, attention must be drawn to Professor Asplund’s addition to the old courthouse which has its acme in the fine, light hall with its staircases. Here the architect has shown that such a room need not have the common appearance of a salle des pas perdus.”99 A survey of recent architecture published by the Association of Swedish Architects in 1939 reproduced four pictures of the building but omitted the façade.100 In the same year, the state tourist bureau in its description of Gothenburg ignored the extension altogether.101 The pattern was continued elsewhere.102 Even when a supporter like Hakon Ahlberg described the courthouse extension for the memorial volume published in 1943, he emphasized the tireless logic that Asplund had applied to its design and the protests of the people of Gothenburg, who “almost to a man . . . repudiated the work.” He reserved his own opinion.103 During the 1940s, however, something changed. On 22 October 1943, the architect Gunnar Sundbärg contributed a page 3 essay to Handelstidningen.104 Entitled “To Build Tall and to Build Low,” the essay was a critique of tall building. The author wanted to reject the idea that the tall building should be thought a normal choice; rather, he argued, it should be used only out of necessity. Ten years earlier 142

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Sundbärg had taken a radical position on the issue of monumentality (see chapter 3), and now he was representing a compromise position on one of the symbols of modernity in the pages of the newspaper that had been so opposed to Asplund’s building. In November the newspaper produced a special number to welcome a national meeting of Swedish architects hosted by the Gothenburg Building Society (Göteborgs byggnadsförening), with essays by Sundbärg, Åhrén, Lilienberg, and Tage William-​Olsson. More remarkably, the following year Sundbärg took up the history of the extension in a pair of articles in Handelstidningen. In two consecutive issues he dissected the story of “how the extension to Gothenburg’s courthouse was designed.”105 The account was a historical narrative touching on the main changes in the designs from 1913 forward. Sundbärg noted that while opinions about the building had initially been negative, visiting Danish architects’ opinions had been wholly positive. Both Arne Jacobsen and Steen Eiler Rasmussen had visited Gothenburg.106 Sundbärg concluded with a strong defense of the building, arguing that it followed the fundamental law of all art, in that the exterior corresponds to the interior structure and that it also offers something new, from its own time. “Here one realizes the untenable total absurdity of these positions; one should probably take a certain care with one’s judgments. In every case, one might dare to believe that Asplund’s courthouse façade will, with time, blend in very well with its environment and that in the future it will be very difficult to understand the immense anger that it aroused when it was new.”107 It was as if a circle had been closed—​almost. Memories of the protests did not fade away completely. The art historian Arvid Baeckström (1881–1964), a student of

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Romdahl’s, interviewed in Handelstidningen in 1946, described the relation between old and new as a “collision between a fitness freak [frisksportare] and an elderly gentleman.” It was, he said, “a permanent accident.”108 For his New Year’s revue of 1951, “Karl Gerhards glädjehus” (Karl Gerhard’s brothel), Gerhard sang what must count as the first (and only) love song to a courthouse extension—​albeit an ironic one (of which Segerstedt might have approved):

But I see Gothenburg en rose, a dear and beauty-​saturated sight, a delightful via amorosa, all day, Avenyn is my point de vue. Those who look with naked eye use prose, frown at the view of the courthouse. But I see Gothenburg en rose. For me, Asplund’s courthouse is like Venice’s beautiful Doge’s Palace.109

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Managing Modernisms at Home

Chap ter 5

w

T

he disputes provoked by Torgny Segerstedt and Handelstidningen about Asplund’s building revealed the precarious standing of modern architecture in Gothenburg in 1936. Segerstedt was only one voice, albeit an important one, but not even the advanced guard in other fields could be counted on for a sympathetic response. With the interior, although the professional critiques sharpened, the mood changed somewhat. Perhaps the Gothenburg-​ blue understairs, the national-symphony-of-​ wood paneling, the marine-​inspired dogleg staircase, and the exposed framing under the second floor (offering a recollection of the great Atlantic ocean liners that had Gothenburg as their home and that local craftsmen had built) softened visitors. Like an ocean liner, the building offered places to explore, novel art objects and mechanical toys to examine, and an upper-​ deck café with a view over the Gothenburg skyline. Here was an experience to celebrate the city and its achievements. Was the first reaction something Asplund feared in his initial insistence on modesty for the outside and in his decision to recall some of the more popular contemporary Gothenburg buildings on the inside? Perhaps the entire episode reflects something characteristically Swedish about public life, the result of being in a country where the stage is relatively small and loud voices can suddenly fill a room and

then just as quickly fade away. Or where it seems better to make peace rather than sustain a quarrel. Responses over time can be tempered by the much-​prized Scandinavian virtues of collective action and compromise. Political life and social life have traditionally been structured to avoid open conflict; finding a way to carry that ideal of consensus into the comparatively unstructured field of cultural life is more problematic.1 It might even be better not to stand out in the first place. In addition to Segerstedt’s moralizing tone, one can hear in the public criticism of Asplund’s building something akin to “how dare he?” or “what right does he have to do that?” As the obituarist for Göteborgs morgonpost wrote on Asplund’s death, in October 1940: “Whatever one’s opinion of the architectural creations of the deceased, one cannot deny their originality. His reaction against the imitative building styles of the nineteenth century took him to extremes, and that was his error.”2 The peril of being the tallest tulip in the field (i.e., standing out), to use the Dutch phrase, is known to Swedes as Jantelagen, or Jante’s Law, a term that refers to the fictional town of Jante created by the Norwegian author Aksel Sandemose in his novel En flykting korsar sitt spår (A fugitive crosses his tracks; Norwegian edition, 1933; Swedish edition, 1934). In the book the narrator learns of the special virtues of conformity through ten

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Figure 107 View across Djugårdsviken to the Stockholm Exhibition, summer 1930. Topping the prominent advertising mast is the abstract wing symbol of the exhibition, designed by Sigurd Lewerentz. To the right is Paradiset, the Asplund-​designed restaurant, and further right, against the horizon, is his Svea Rike (Kingdom of the Swedes) pavilion. Franz Svanström.

unwritten laws used to manage social stability. Asplund had committed the crime of being different, and the public registered its disapproval by humiliating him in the press and protesting anonymously en masse. Navigating cultural change anywhere is a complex matter, and it might be especially difficult for architecture in Sweden. Nils Einar Eriksson’s defense of Asplund’s courthouse extension was therefore particularly canny—​yes, the building might be a problem child, but it was now one of the family and needed to be loved. Could Eriksson also have been reminding the people of Gothenburg of Per Albin Hansson’s vision of the Swedish folkhem, where no one goes “unappreciated” and there are no “stepchildren”?3 Segerstedt’s hectoring morality, in fact, recalled an earlier moment in the struggles over modern

architecture, when emotions over modernism were at their height. One of the fundamental truths of architectural historiography is that Stockholm’s summertime exhibition of 1930 represented the breakthrough of modern architecture in Sweden. Under the leadership of Gregor Paulsson, head of the Svenska slöjdföreningen (the Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts), and with Asplund as chief designer, the exhibition introduced Swedes to a modernized form of their arts and crafts and presented that image to an international audience (fig. 107). Sponsorship was in the hands of the leading members of the commercial, political, and social elite, whose understanding of the new movement was probably limited.4 The exhibition offered a remarkable range of activities for visitors: M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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some educational, some recreational. In model houses and apartments visitors could walk through demonstrations of the new functionalist architecture. Elsewhere halls displayed ceramics, glass, textiles, furniture, light fittings, wallpaper, and wall hangings. It was, all in all, a relatively lighthearted affair. The buildings were temporary, brightly colored, and designed for a summertime audience, which was offered a buoyant vision of a new, modernized Sweden. Architects, both domestic and foreign, were among the exhibition’s most ardent supporters. In the broader currents of society, however, praise was not universal. Left-​wing critics argued that the exhibition was merely a manifestation of Swedish capital. The Communist newspaper Ny dag commented, “Everything was a truly patriotic and royal delight such as we are not inclined to waste space on in our columns.”5 One persistent complaint was that the exhibition was insufficiently Swedish, and the architect Ferdinand Boberg (1860–1946) even denied that the buildings at the exhibition could be called architecture at all!6 Toward the end of its run, the exhibition excited sharper controversy than it probably deserved, because of attacks that came from within the exhibition’s organizing group. Carl Malmsten (1888–1972), the furniture designer and a member of the working committee for the exhibition, argued that factory-​made industrial products had overwhelmed handicrafts in the exhibits. Malmsten brought together political conservatives and radicals to sign an open letter, to be printed in the leading newspapers, protesting Gregor Paulsson’s leadership of the Society for Arts & Crafts.7 In short, though the exhibition pleased many in the architectural community, notably those already well disposed to modernism, its immediate public reception was less than wholly favorable and 146

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led to a significant rift within the organizing group.8 Gregor Paulsson admitted that an “antifunkispsykos” had a grip on cultured society; tellingly, the next exhibition organized by his arts-and-​crafts society and sent to London was entitled “Modern Progress—​National Tradition.”9 The architectural historian Eva Rudberg has described this as “a victory for the traditionalists,” though it would be a mistake to look for too much from this victory; indeed, the term “victory,” as the critic Gotthard Johansson (1891–1968) wrote at the time, may be the wrong one.10 In the push and pull of debate, the argument simply shifted from side to side; neither position ever wholly excluded the other: neither granted victory, neither condemned to defeat. How did architectural culture respond to the exhibition? In one respect things did not change. There had been functionalist architecture in Stockholm and in Swedish provincial cities well before the exhibition. What the Stockholm Exhibition did, however, was crystallize opinions and sharpen the arguments of proponents and opponents. In the immediate wake of the exhibition, however, Swedish architectural discourse reverted to the center.11 In so vigorously emphasizing the “breakthrough” of modern architecture in 1930—​the word in Swedish, genombrott, seems to appear everywhere at this time—​historians have underplayed the diverse modernities on offer at the Stockholm Exhibition. Modernity at the exhibition was connected to Sweden and Swedishness. For example, Asplund’s own Svea Rike (Kingdom of the Swedes) pavilion provided a modernist gloss on nationalism. Inside was an outline history of Sweden as well as a celebration of the characteristics of the Nordic race, implying that the new radical architecture also represented the modern manifestation of the traditional virtues of the Swedish people.

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Asplund and Paulsson, astute politicians that they were, maintained strong ties to the royal and the rich, and royalty made certain to be at home when distinguished foreign modernists came to call. Later, when Le Corbusier visited Stockholm in January 1933 to give a pair of lectures, Prince Eugen (1865–1947), brother to the king and a noted landscape painter, accompanied the Swiss architect to Skansen, the outdoor exposition of vernacular Swedish architecture on Djurgården. Some modernists may have been disappointed when Le Corbusier reported that his favorite architecture in Stockholm was Skansen, the Royal Palace, and the Gustavian theater at Drottningholm—​but perhaps he was just being polite. Taken to Asplund’s public library, he pronounced it “très Napoléonique . . . et beaucoup de gôut.”12 Still, Le Corbusier’s opinions matched those of others for whom Swedishness and the Swedish tradition were the key concerns. Modernists, however, protested that modernism was traditionally Swedish. Gustaf Näsström (1899–1979), for example, devoted a long introductory chapter in his book on Swedish functionalism (Svensk funktionalism, 1930) to the links between modernism and the Swedish building tradition. He argued that regional tradition underlay the new style; it would not be a “feeble imitation” but rather “built in Swedish climate, by Swedes and for Swedes.”13 Even the manifesto acceptera, published in 1931, despite its occasionally jagged polemical tone, reads largely like a dry sociological study rather than a call to arms. The authors distinguish the “good old” style of building and the “bad” confusion of old and new (“the pretend renaissance, baroque and new ancient style”). In themselves, “old buildings . . . give a great deal of delight and stimulation today.”14 Not all buildings could be decorated with colored plywood or spiky

advertising towers; they required a durable representation of state or cultural interests without committing the solecism at the public library that Asplund now satirized in acceptera. Just as the word “victory” might be inappropriate to describe the ascendance of the modern with respect to the traditional, so too might be the concept of a “retreat,” which is sometimes used to characterize the attenuation of traditionalism in the decade after modernism’s “breakthrough.” Conciliation as an active policy was very much in the air.15 Most Swedish modernists in the 1930s did not express the need to sweep away the old. In 1934 Hakon Ahlberg and Wolter Gahn, both modernists (and the latter a co-​author of acceptera), confirmed an earlier decision that the new courthouse in Halmstad should leave the old half-​timbered Appeltofft Building (ca. 1700) in place on the main square and that the new building would be designed to respect it.16 In 1935 Gotthard Johansson, a strong supporter of the new architecture, welcomed the compromise between the traditional and the modern that developed after the exhibition. He especially admired Nils Einar Eriksson’s concert hall in Gothenburg, precisely because it represented “a harmonious balance between functional and aesthetic qualities, between saklighet and beauty, which many doubted modern architecture could achieve.”17 Conciliation was progress, and when things went too far in one direction or another, alarms sounded.18 One way to trace the fortune of modern architecture and to see the difficulty of employing it in public architecture is through an analysis of the values attached to the term funkis. Originally used as a humorous abbreviation for the Swedish term for functionalist (funktionalistisk), funkis soon achieved wide cultural resonance. Funkis was the term of the moment. As the literary critic Axel Strindberg M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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(1910–2000) recalled, when it first appeared, around 1930, the word had talismanic power: “A good word. An uplifting word in a dark time, something to hold one up, something that worked. . . . That magic word set in motion so much that one had not thought about before. Funkis was the word and the conception that lived on in the attempt to bring order in the new world of ideas that penetrated even the students’ dens. It lived on long after the exhibition’s happy flags stopped flying.”19 The Stockholm Exhibition had a restaurant called Funkis (as did Gothenburg and the tiny west-​coast resort town of Onsala). In Copenhagen there was a publisher called Funkis, and a pair of Danish comics, Fyrtornet and Släpvagnen, appeared in a film entitled Flirt, funkis och fullträffar (Flirt, funkis, and bull’s-eyes, 1929), extremely popular in Sweden. Everything and anything modern could be funkis. There were funkis poems about funkis architecture.20 The cartoonist Strix in the weekly satirical magazine Söndags-​nisse did a humorous and unrecognizable “Funkis portrait” (Funkisporträtt).21 Editorial cartoonists had a field day. Under the headline “Funkis,” a man laments his broken bicycle. His friend advises him to “crumple it a little bit more” so that he can sell it as a “functionalist rocking chair at the Stockholm Exhibition.” In 1932 Meeths, a Gothenburg department store with a popular tea room, advertised a “funkis Christmas” (funkisjul) to its clients.22 But funkis also became a kind of conventional pejorative to describe the impersonal, the mechanistic, and the un-​Swedish!23 In a speech in Malmö reported in Göteborgs-​posten from 1931, Uno Åhrén, who had already defended functionalism in Byggmästaren, tried to explain that the new architecture did not want to take over the world of taste: “The ambition of modern in this respect is not, as many believe, to create a 148

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mass of strange ‘funkis’ furniture, [but] rather more simply to decorate one’s dwelling so that it can be as useful and as pleasant as possible for the lowest price.”24 In some circles, as Åhrén observed in an article in the left-​wing political and literary review Spektrum in 1931, “modernism” was next to Bolshevism.25 The transformation of funkis into code for radical socialism is illustrated by the debates around the collective-​ house projects in Alvik, outside of Stockholm (1932), and at John Ericssonsgatan, in Stockholm (1935), which further complicated the status of modern architecture in public life. The idea of the collective house had been discussed in acceptera and was linked with modern architecture in Sweden through the architect Sven Markelius, one of its advocates.26 The collective house offered small compact apartments with limited kitchen facilities, a restaurant that could also dispatch meals to the apartments, and full-​time in-​house day care for the small children of working mothers. In Social Democratic political circles, the debate around the collective house centered on the roles of women and mothers, with proponents explaining the links between Russian women, collective living, and modern architecture.27 In reporting these debates the press found the Soviet connection irresistible and conjured up an image of socialist “collective anonymity.” Thus, the story of what happened when “collective” practices were put in Sweden carried disturbing overtones. In describing a fictional “fru Andersson” at a collective house, for example, a reporter observed her unable to recognize her own child in the functionalist nursery and concluded, “It is truly extremely funkis. . . . The modern isn’t suitable anymore. It should be called funkis.” And the author linked modernist efficiency and rationalization to the dangers of collectivization in the Soviet

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Union.28 This kind of attack troubled Markelius sufficiently to provoke a rebuttal in Svenska dagbladet in which he rejected the Soviet connection: “Everything is based on Swedish circumstances. It isn’t a Russian import even if we call it a collective house, nor would it be an American import if we called it a family hotel.”29 The funkis craze cut two ways: it was a fashion that denoted the up-to-​date, the modern, the rational, and the scientific, but it could be interpreted as “impersonal,” as a headline writer did for the liberal newspaper Dagens nyheter, contrasting small classes, which allowed a close exchange between teacher and student, with large classes, which the writer called funkis.30 In short, funkis quickly became a convenient stick with which to beat modernists and socialists, and it rendered more problematic the penetration of modern architecture into traditional settings.31 This connection must have disturbed politicians, for the success of the Social Democratic Party had in large part been based on uniting intellectuals and laborers, urban factory workers and rural farmers, modern scientific practice and Swedish tradition. There was nothing to be gained by alienating potential political followers over a matter of artistic taste when compromise was possible. When the split between the modernizers and the handicraft workers within the Society for Arts & Crafts broke into the open following the Stockholm Exhibition, in October 1930, the board of the society selected Asplund and Åhrén from the modernists and the weaver Elsa Gullberg and furniture designer Carl Malmsten from the traditionalists to discuss future changes to the society.32 And while these matters still hung in the air in January 1931, the party newspaper Social-​demokraten published a serialized fictional story about the efforts of a couple, Håkon and Inga-​Lena Balder, to build a

Figure 108 Håkon and Inga-​Lena meet their first funkis villa. From “Balders Hage,” Social-​demokraten, 8 January 1931, p. 6.

country house.33 It is hard not to read this story as an attempt to show that modern design and modern architects did not imprison the party. Divided over eleven issues of the newspaper, the story, “Balder’s Pasture—​or the Little Red Cabin by the Lake,” centers on whether Håkon and Inga-​Lena should build a traditional red wooden cabin (or stuga) or should buy a new modernist funkis-​style villa.34 After looking at different sites (where they are shocked by the sharp practices of the real-​estate agents) and discussing the idyllic characteristics of the red cabin they want to build, they happen upon a modernist villa (fig. 108). Håkon is immediately seduced by it: it is the answer to all his dreams. His wife, Inga-​Lena, however, finds it unattractive and inappropriate and still prefers the traditional Swedish Falu rödfärg (a copper-​based red-​colored) cabin. The story is complicated by the presence of Inga-​Lena’s best friend, Viola Söderdal (her surname translates as “south valley”), who accompanies the couple and also prefers modern architecture. In episode 4, entitled “Love and Funkis,” M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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Håkon, troubled by his wife’s inability to appreciate modern design, wonders whether she is really the right woman for him: how would she look in a thoroughly modern funkis villa with metal furniture? Not good. Viola Söderdal, on the other hand . . . “He shot a look at Viola Söderdal. Viola Söderdal’s eyebrows were black, thin, and newly plucked, her mouth was carmine red, and her cheeks were the color of peaches. Viola Söderdal was funkis.”35 Order is restored in succeeding episodes. Håkon returns to his wife, and together they build a traditional red cabin. All ends happily. Among the many possible morals to be drawn from the story is that despite the allure of funkis, a good Swedish man is loyal to his Swedish wife and to the values of traditional Swedish architecture.36 There was, in short, a desire within Social Democratic circles to prevent the total identification of the party with modern architecture. Such a campaign, if that it was, mirrored the political strategies of the Social Democratic Party. The party had come to power in 1932 and remained in power as a result of a carefully constructed alliance with the Farmers’ Party. To suggest that only an advanced guard of urban intellectuals with tastes developed abroad now ruled the country was unwise and, possibly, untrue. A Social Democratic election film of August 1930, Bonde och arbetare (Farmer and worker), expressed the relation between city and country in terms of a love story. Sven, a member of the Social Democratic Party and a metal worker, loves Britta, the daughter of a farmer who disapproves of the party and of his daughter’s suitor. By explaining the party’s land policy and demonstrating his skill with a pitchfork in the fields alongside Britta’s father, Sven is able to persuade him to vote for the Social Democrats. The Social Democratic Party is for everyone and the 150

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appropriate agent for the traditional values of the farmers as well as the industrial workers. In films such as Röda dagen (1931), Karl-​Fredrik regnar (1937), and Ryske snuvan (1937), a comforting male Social Democrat presents himself as the glue binding society.37 Politicians underlined this position.38 Socialist novelists such as Vilhelm Moberg sought to understand the appeal of both city and country. In his trilogy about the urban newspaper editor Knut Toring (Sänkt sedebetyg, 1935; Sömnlös, 1937; Giv oss jorden! 1939), Moberg describes Toring’s dream to return to the land and his failure—​by turns comic and tragic—​to make a home for himself in the fictional village of Lidalycke (a conflation of the word lida, meaning “to suffer,” and lycka, meaning “happiness”). The novels have a satirical edge, and the illusions urban dwellers hold about the countryside (and vice versa) figure prominently. Toring is unable to feel thoroughly at home in either. Over and again Moberg characterizes his tragic situation: “Knut was a half-​breed, neither peasant nor city dweller, neither one nor the other, but something of both and not enough of either. And that was his life’s fate and great problem. Knut was a split personality—​split between country and city.”39 In short, issues of the rural and the urban and of modernity and tradition were at play on many political and cultural levels, both overt and hidden. This studied ambivalence played itself out as stylistic self-​ effacement in the architecture sponsored by the Social Democratic government. Public architecture presented special issues for architects interested in modern design and politicians and administrators interested in synthesizing political affairs. In two significant new museum buildings with broad educational functions, the Museum of National Antiquities (today Historiska muséet), Stockholm

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(1928–43), and the Malmö Art Museum (competition, 1932), old and new entered into a complex dialogue that favored a modest demeanor for the new.40 Both the Museum of National Antiquities and the Malmö Art Museum were built around older buildings. In Stockholm, the new historical museum sat next to the nineteenth-​century barracks belonging to the recently decommissioned buildings of the artillery. In Malmö the new museum was located on the grounds of the sixteenth-​century castle built by Erik of Pomerania. Both competitions therefore required a sensitive handling of older buildings—​and both chose a comparatively stripped-​down style recalling Asplund’s side elevation for the courthouse design of 1934. In Stockholm the architects Bengt Romare (1902–1978) and Georg Scherman (1899–1978) employed echoes of the cubic Vasa castle towers that had also moved Carl Westman at the courthouse in Stockholm thirty years earlier, but heightened to a greater level of abstraction (fig. 109). In Malmö, the original building was sufficient evocation of the past; the new building, by the architect Carl-​Axel Stoltz (1904– 1975), had to manage an effective functional entry and a suitable frame for the old structure (fig. 110). The modernity of these museums was not so much in their architectural style—​ which was unexceptional—​as in their popular appeal and accessibility. As Sigurd Curman, the well-​respected riksantik­varie (responsible for overseeing the national architectural heritage), noted, the buildings were distinctive as “people’s educational institutions” and as display cases for art objects. Curman might describe the modern museum as a kind of “department store,” but he did not require that a museum look like department store.41 Curman was heartily opposed to using a “funkis box.” In his opinion, a “museum should

certainly have a certain monumentality and a certain quiet nobility to it!”42 Even in Asplund’s failed entry for the Malmö Art Museum competition, entitled significantly “1434–1934,” the architect took special care that the proposal would be considerably more diffident than the buildings for the Stockholm Exhibition, allowing the older building to stand clear from the new addition (fig. 111). As the architectural historians Anders Bergström and Viktor Edman conclude, “The museum of the future would contain rational working rooms and modern exhibition spaces, but at the same time a demand for monumentality would remain.”43 Efforts to forge such forms of compromise in public architecture by toning down traditional symbolic elements were under way elsewhere at the time of the design and construction of Asplund’s courthouse extension. These were objectives Asplund was aiming to achieve too. Finding forms of public conciliation was the order of the day. On 28 May 1935, at eleven o’clock, the Swedish Parliament, the Riksdag, celebrated its five-hundredth anniversary. M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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Figure 109 Bengt Romare and Georg Scherman, Swedish History Museum, Stockholm, 1935–40. The old (left) and the new (right) blend seamlessly. Axel Eliassons konstförlag AB, Stockholm.

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Figure 110 Carl-​Axel Stoltz, Malmö Art Museum, 1931–36, Borggården. Built of red brick, the buildings assumed anonymity as their distinctive virtue, offering no distraction from the older buildings on site. Figure 111 Gunnar Asplund, “1434–1934,” entry for the Malmö Art Museum competition, 1931, plan, original drawing lost. From Gustav Holmdahl, Sven Ivar Lind, and Kjell Ödeen, eds., Gunnar Asplund arkitekt 1885–1940 (Stockholm: Tidskriften Byggmästaren, 1943), 63. Courtesy Arkitektur förlag, Stockholm.

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At Storkyrkan, the oldest church in central Stockholm, the king and his court, parliamentarians and foreign ambassadors, civic and religious leaders, heard a special cantata composed for the occasion.44 It told the story of Swedish independence from the time of Engelbrekt Engelbrektsson, the fifteenth-​century hero, to the present day. The team responsible for the work brought together two important cultural strains. Sten Selander (1891–1957) composed the libretto. He had begun his career as a traditional lyric poet who, under the impact of World War I, became a modernist. In his most famous book, Staden och andra dikter (The city and other poems, 1926), he employed modernist themes about city life in poems such as “Staden” (The city) and “Den tysta timmen” (The quiet hour), and he represented the struggles for self-​improvement among the peasantry in a poem entitled “En bondestudent” (A peasant student).45 One poem, “På biblioteket” (At the library), even celebrated the great central room in Asplund’s public library.46 In 1931 he published a work well suited to the political vision of the Social Democratic government. En dag: Dikter (A day: Poems, 1931) celebrated the everyday in what were called vardagsidyller (everyday idylls). As contemporary as were his themes, his poems were always metrical and frequently rhymed.47 The composer of the music was Hugo Alfvén (1872–1960). If Selander represented the domestic-​material side of the Social Democratic Party, Alfvén represented the conservative premodernist National Romantic tradition. His Midsommarvaka, op. 19 (Swedish Rhapsody, no. 1), composed in 1903, and Sveriges flagga, composed in 1916, with lyrics by the conservative poet Karl Gustaf Ossiannilsson (1875–1970), approached the status of national tunes, the latter often sung in Gustaf Adolf square in Gothenburg on

Gustav Adolfsdagen.48 In the Riksdag cantata the choir sings, over the musical interpretation of the sounds of a factory, of the virtues of the Social Democratic folkhem: Hear the roar of the deep! Hear the rollers and turbines sing: “Too long have we forgotten who carries the day’s weights; Now the past is crushed between wheel and belt; Now is found no other estate. We own fate alike Ye kingdom’s lords—​now victory is to give way And allow Sweden to become, for poor as for rich, More like a home.”49 What listeners heard in 1935, therefore, was an amalgamation of new and old: modern themes in metrical verse wed to a tonal and relatively traditional work. Alfvén even provided a musical quotation from Martin Luther’s hymn “Vår Gud är oss en väldig borg” (“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”), orchestrated in heroic style, the hymn that traditionally concluded Gustav Adolfsdagen celebrations.50 In his commentary on the concert, written many years later, Alfvén concluded that the celebrations of the parliamentary anniversary would have filled “even the worst Communist with reverence.”51 Nor would it have immediately repelled the most ardent socialist.52 In short, shrewd management of modernity in the public sphere entailed compromise. Finding a balance between old and new, traditional and advanced, rural and urban was not merely a matter of temporary political expediency; it was a sound national project for Social Democrats. This compromise, between old and M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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new, was something that Asplund had tried to address, inside and outside, with his design for the Gothenburg Courthouse extension. What Segerstedt saw, instead, was “iconoclasm.” Modernism in Gothenburg Modernism played out otherwise in Gothenburg than in the capital. In Gothenburg there was no modernist architectural group with distinguished foreign connections to proselytize on behalf of modern architecture, and the Arts and Crafts movement from which a modernist group might develop was weaker. Gothenburg did not even have a modernist exhibition to polarize local taste.53 The opening of the Stockholm Exhibition provoked no special debate within the pages of the Gothenburg newspapers; it was, for many, the chance to remember the city’s own Jubilee Exhibition and indulge in some civic pride at the expense of the capital.54 Generally evenhanded articles explained the nature of the architecture at the exhibition to readers in short, clear, unbiased phrases.55 Though the Gothenburg City Council had a Social Democratic majority starting in 1930–31, the modernist residences of city councilors (if there were any) did not merit attention comparable to that devoted to government ministers, including the prime minister himself, settling into their modernist row houses in Bromma. Socialist councilors in Gothenburg were as likely as their conservative colleagues to disdain Asplund’s building, at least initially. Equally, old city interests had not been mobilized on behalf of architectural modernism as in Stockholm, where capital and court had sponsored the summer exhibition on Djurgårdsbrunnsviken in 1930. Moreover, the city’s industrial elite had no investment in modern design and probably no special reason to be invested in it, thus leaving the aesthetic field to 154

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those already well placed in the cultural hierarchy to pass judgment on these novelties. No one lent more public authority to Segerstedt’s disapproval of Asplund’s building than Axel Romdahl. Romdahl had received his Ph.D. in the history of art from Uppsala University with a dissertation on Pieter Brueghel the Elder. He worked at the Nordic Museum in Stockholm before moving to Gothenburg in 1906 as curator and then as director of the art museum and professor at Gothenburg University. In 1909, when not yet thirty years old, he presented himself as the defender of traditional Gothenburg, authoring the section on the city for the series Gamla svenska städer (Old Swedish cities), the nine-​part report prepared by Svenska teknologföreningens afdelning för husbyggnadskonst (The Swedish technological society’s section for building construction). Romdahl was clear about the twin enemies of the old city: fire and modernization. Through publications and exhibitions as well as innumerable public lectures and walking tours, he became the city’s informal leader in all matters artistic. His connections were local, national, and international.56 He had been in contact with Segerstedt from his earliest days as an editor at Forum, and he wrote regularly for Handelstidningen.57 Traditional in his views of art and society, Romdahl had responded to the authors of acceptera with a text of his own, “Reagera,” or “React.”58 There Romdahl questioned whether Swedes should “accept” the future as outlined by Paulsson, Asplund, and the others. Did this mean “acceptance” of the depopulation of the countryside and the growth of the city? Did this mean the abandonment of the traditions of handicraft? Did it mean that if one was not prepared to “accept” the future described by the modernists, one was a “cultural pessimist”? Romdahl

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even delivered a shot across Asplund’s bow in a phrase that recalled the fact that though the architect now espoused modernism, he had at one time been more traditional: “The ornament, which gives matter life and soul, is proscribed, indeed by the very architects who a few years ago drew themselves and everyone else senseless with meanders, palmettes, and bows.”59 And Romdahl lamented the construction of “big well-​arranged anthills, where a collectivist way of life can develop, with kitchens, dining rooms, libraries, and playrooms for all and with a bed for each individual.”60 As the artistic consultant for the Lindberg Foundation, Romdahl was perfectly placed to advance (or frustrate) Asplund’s plans for façade sculpture.

In Gothenburg the construction of the first modern buildings, such as Nybygget in the working-​class district of Masthugget, designed by Ingrid Wallberg and Alfred Roth (1930), hardly caused a ripple in the public sphere. Commercial buildings—​in reality more Art Deco than functionalist—​such as Harald Ericson’s Otterhällan “skyscraper” (1927–29), Ernst Torulf’s office building at 12 Östra Hamngatan (completed 1930), F. O. Petersson & Sons’ curved façade to Skeppsbrohuset (1933–35), R. O. Swensson’s G.P.-​huset (headquarters for Göteborgs-​posten) on Polhemsplatsen (1933–35), and the clothing store Ströms by Ove Gormsen (1932–35) on Kungsgatan were popular with the public (figs. 112–15). “Emte,” writing in Morgontidningen and later so critical of the courthouse extension façade, especially praised Ströms for its contextual sensitivity: “Admit that the new style works well in the context—​I am simply enchanted by this straight and linear concrete façade with its glittering windows right close to the cathedral and all the other old Gothenburg buildings. Ströms has the most dominating M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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Figure 112 Harald Ericson, Otterhällan, Gothenburg, 1927–29. This was Gothenburg’s first tall building (sixteen stories). It had a two-​ story restaurant at the top of the main tower. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm. Figure 113 F. O. Petersson & Sons, Skeppsbrohuset, Gothenburg, 1935. The original building had offices and a hotel. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

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Figure 114 R. O. Swensson, Göteborgs-​ posten Building (G.P.-​huset), Gothenburg, 1933–35. G.P.-​huset was one of many modernistic newspaper offices built throughout Europe. It was sited near the train station and the center of the city for easy distribution. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm. Figure 115 Ove Gormsen, Ströms Clothing Store, Gothenburg, 1935. Night photography was a popular way to suggest a building’s modernity. Prepared by Ströms itself, this image was used as an advertisement. The building had a roof terrace with café for the summer. Ströms, Gothenburg.

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location one can imagine. It changes the whole appearance of the city center. The architect has had a tremendous responsibility. I think that he has carried it with honor.”61 Even Melchior Wernstedt’s (1886–1973) modernist addition to the Röhsska Museum, opened November 1936, was generally welcomed although hardly visible to passersby.62 When modernism came to the eastern end of Gustaf Adolf square in the form of Nils Einar Eriksson’s Thule Building (inaugurated 11 November 1936), it generally met with approval, though it clearly strained at the boundaries of good taste (fig. 116).63 As the columnist for Vridscen in Göteborgs morgonpost wrote, “Elegant building say many; ugly building say others. The editors of Vridscen vote ‘elegant.’ ”64 Elsewhere the conservative paper called the building a “true embellishment of this center-​city location” and somewhat inaccurately referred to its “functionalistic magnificence.”65 Not that Gothenburg was exempt from funkis anxiety; but it was as if funkis was more a rhetorical danger than an architectural risk.

When the nearby town of Uddevalla, just north of Gothenburg, built a five-​story steel-and-​ concrete building in 1931, Göteborgs-​posten headlined the story “Uddevalla to Get Funkis Contribution.”66 Two new “modernist” railway stations at Nässjö and Falköping in 1935 were called “funkisstationer”;67 a new hospital in Uddevalla was a “funkislasarett”;68 and Erik Friberger’s town hall in Kungsbacka (1933–35) was in a “modernly expressed style, but not extreme funkis.”69 “Extreme funkis” was undesirable, as was musical funkis. Thus “KB” (Knut Bäck), reviewing a concert that had offered two traditional works and one of Hindemith’s in the recently completed concert hall, could write in October 1936, “Besides, Hindemith’s concerto is not at all funkis. It is altogether too bold and rich in fantasy to deserve that epithet.”70 That

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Figure 116 Nils Einar Eriksson, Thule Building, Gothenburg, 1937. Built of yellow brick, the building stands at a critical crossroads in the center of Gothenburg. The reentrant corner provides a modest bell tower. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

too was the position of John Eliasson when he showed a journalist from Morgontidningen around Asplund’s new courthouse extension as the scaffolding came down in October 1936. “Without being asked,” he told the reporter, “people come up expressing their satisfaction with the new building ‘that does not seem at all funkis.’ ”71 Eliasson knew what was on people’s minds. As Göteborgs tidningen had commented when work began on the extension site in 1935, “The architect Asplund doesn’t intend to give us some sort of funkis courthouse to replace the half a block that he will now level. . . . it is true that he will take away a piece of the old courthouse as well, but that is only so that he can make a larger entity when he starts with the new building.” The new design would “match the style of the old law courts as closely as possible. And that is truly needed. To patch on a piece of funkis here would be unjustified.”72

Kungsportsavenyn, Götapl atsen, and the Concert Hall From an architectural point of view, the development of Götaplatsen, Gothenburg’s cultural Capitolium, offers the most fruitful point from which to observe shifting architectural taste in the city during these years, and events surrounding this development reveal the true weight of Torgny Segerstedt. As the southern terminus to the 840-meter-​long straight street Kungsportsavenyn, or Avenyn (originally called Gustaf Adolfsgatan), Götaplatsen was indicative of Gothenburg’s ambitions in the expansive climate of the middle decades of the nineteenth century (fig. 117).73 The product of the first city-​planning competition in Sweden, of 1861, Avenyn had by the 1880s become one of the most important residential zones for the new wealthy commercial patriciate. Three-​ story houses with front lawns set back from M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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Figure 117 View down the east side of Kungsportsavenyn, Gothenburg, looking south toward the future site of Götaplatsen, ca. 1900. Joh. Ol. Andreen, Gothenburg.

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the street lined the route, and on the cross streets were elegant large-​boned apartment buildings and the city’s cultural institutions, some newly established, others transferred from the central core.74 The street had been planted with trees, giving it the feel of one of Haussmann’s great Parisian boulevards, and in 1898 the architects August Kobb (1819–1901) and Eugen Thorburn won a competition to terminate the street with a commercial palace combining rental apartments and offices.75 Yet the zone was never securely residential. Lorensberg Theater opened on Avenyn in 1916, and the city decided, after much discussion, to locate the Jubilee Exhibition at its southern terminus. In 1916 the city held a competition for the art museum that then framed one side of Götaplatsen (fig. 118). The construction of the city theater (Carl Bergsten, 1928–31) and the concert hall (Nils Einar Eriksson, 1932–35) completed the square. I have already noted how Bergsten’s city theater, with its many changes in façade design, influenced Asplund’s approach to the problems of the courthouse extension.

The rezoning of Avenyn in 1935 and the construction of the concert hall, completed in 1935, fill out the picture of architectural change in the years just after the Stockholm Exhibition and before the removal of the scaffolding from the courthouse-​extension façade in October 1936. In 1928 Albert Lilienberg, the city first engineer (in reality, the city planner), left Gothenburg for Stockholm. The ultimate appointment of Uno Åhrén on 15 March 1932 as the new head of city planning brought new methods to the study of the city’s organization and refocused planning efforts on mass housing, recreation facilities, and efficient movement within the city.76 Lilienberg had followed his master, Camillo Sitte; Åhrén was a modernist, a friend of Walter Gropius and Le Corbusier, a member of the Congrès internationale de l’architecture moderne, and a collaborator with Asplund in the writing of acceptera. In December 1931 Göteborgs-​posten reported on a lecture Åhrén had given in Malmö to the provincial engineers’ club and alerted its readers that Åhrén had original ideas about city planning. The city plan, in Åhrén’s opinion, was not a work of art but a tool for effective living.77 One area that quickly felt Åhrén’s influence was Avenyn. Despite its long-​standing favor with the commercial aristocracy, it had lost some of its residential allure over time. The Lorensberg Theater, financed by the wealthy innkeeper Sophus Petersen, had a thousand seats and was the second-largest theater in the country. Petersen opened a popular restaurant nearby. Wealthy residents had moved to newer neighborhoods, and shops, cafés, and offices had begun to open along the street.78 Åhrén’s goal was not to reverse those trends but to advance them, turning the street from residential to mixed apartments and business; new zoning rules would

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Figure 118 View to the north from the Gothenburg Art Museum down Avenyn to the heart of the old city. To the right is Bergsten’s city theater; to the left is Eriksson’s concert hall. A. B. Percy Rippe.

only strengthen a process he thought had already begun.79 Åhrén’s ambitious proximate model may have been Kungsgatan in Stockholm, the closest thing to a New World street, where “advertising lights in flaming script practically gave the impression of Broadway,” as a contemporary wrote.80 The controversy around Avenyn’s urban and architectural issues reveals the importance of Segerstedt and Handelstidningen as a source for the protests around Gustaf Adolf square and the courthouse. The first public discussion of changes to the zoning of Avenyn came in August 1934, when the architect Nils Olsson received permission to build an eight-​story concrete-and-​ glass building at 29 Avenyn, near the corner of Teatergatan, which entailed taking down the older three-​story buildings there (fig. 119).81 The decision was anomalous. Although the stadsplanelagen (city planning law) and

byggnadsstadgan (buildings’ ordinance) of 1931 had given greater authority to city planners to define the nature of development within specific zones of the city, Åhrén had not yet identified all the new zones on which he wanted to focus or the principles he intended to follow in various locations.82 Privately—​within his office—​he had identified Avenyn as an area that could be changed, and he encouraged Olsson to transform a comparatively modest proposal into a larger building, meeting the terms that, later in 1934, he would enshrine in ordinance.83 The liberal papers (Göteborgs-​posten and Handelstidningen) remained silent about the development, but in an editorial in Göteborgs-​ tidningen entitled “Avenyn to Become Funkis,” the paper raised specific questions about how the street would function and how, if it became a business street, it would connect to other parts of the city and whether it would compete M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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Figure 119 Nils Olsson, 29 Avenyn, Gothenburg, 1934. Today this building passes almost unnoticed.

with other shopping areas elsewhere. Despite the decay of the neighborhood, the paper argued, it was still an extremely sensitive part of the city’s image. Of the new development—​ a mixture of apartments and businesses—​they concluded, “Naturally it will be in funkis rather than the old decorative architecture. May it only be asked that it be a true and correct funkis and not that of some quasi-​modernist architect’s false contemporary spirit providing an exhibition of misunderstanding.”84 At the end of November 1934 the city announced zoning changes for Avenyn.85 New building heights between six and eight stories would allow the construction of new offices and apartments, and at the street level the city gave permission to move façades forward 160

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over the gardens that currently separated buildings from pavement, in order to create stores, shops, exhibition spaces, and cinemas. Reception in the press to these proposed changes (and the new construction) varied. After explaining the changes, the liberal press (Göteborgs-​posten and Handelstidningen) was again largely silent. “Astra Khan,” writing the Dagens rond column in Göteborgs morgonpost, though claiming that Avenyn was the most “göteborgska” site in Gothenburg, was unperturbed by the proposed changes: “Kungsportsavenyn is not an old street. There is no history here other than that of the family histories of one generation at the most. There is no architecture to shout about, rather the reverse, and it is imported goods from the prefect George Eugène Haussmann’s Paris of the 1860s. As such it is a very cheap copy and without the urban function of a Paris avenue: more ostentatious than distinguished.” Only “romantic flâneurs,” “Astra Khan” concluded, “will shed a tear over the changes. Only inside architecture in glass and concrete can the modern Mercury take pleasure and blossom.”86 But there were romantic flâneurs who did protest, and these protests filled the columns of Göteborgs-​tidningen. The first to step forward was the landscape artist Erik Biuw (1894–1962). The changes, argued Biuw, demonstrated total disregard for historical facts, not only the “vandalization of old culture.” He went on, in a conflation of historical epochs: “Avenyn is a recollection of Gothenburg’s Great Power period that should be conserved rather than razed and replaced with high straight modernistic buildings of the uniform building style.” Echoing the story of the lost children in the collective house, which emphasized loss of identification of place and person, Biuw recounted the story of the man who moved into one of the

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modern row houses and was seen running up and down the street one night calling out to his wife, “Amalia, Amalia, where do I live?”87 Biuw claimed support for his opinion from friends, and the newspaper interviewed the architect Sten Anjou (1895–1959), an assistant to Munthe at the Röhsska Museum. The following day (5 December) the newspaper followed with an interview with the architect Anders Funkquist (1886–1953). Funkquist argued that Biuw and his friends needed to go see the old buildings and particularly the apartments they were defending; they were unwieldy in scale and difficult to rent. Modernization was inevitable, particularly if Götaplatsen was to achieve its goals.88 And on the same day Gotthard Johansson, writing in the Stockholm newspaper Svenska dagbladet, took up the changes to Avenyn, praising them as the kind of zoning development also needed in Stockholm.89 On 6 December the story featured on page 1 of Göteborgs-​ tidningen included comments from Alfred J. Olsson (a common surname, but possibly a relative of the architect?) and Biuw’s answer to Funkquist. Biuw invoked history. His love of the past was not purely romantic (“We should never completely forget the goddess Clio”). He explained further that his interest was not in “architecture” precisely but that the townscape (stadsbild) should be protected at its heart, with Avenyn sheltered as a “cultural preserve.” “Le Corbusier formulated a slogan: Une machine à habiter. That artist has created too many imitators ad absurdum. We are fed up with the cult of the machine! We want homes for people and people for homes.”90 Sten Moell (1894–1974) supported Biuw, and the pair criticized Gotthard Johansson’s article in Svenska dagbladet the previous day. A final article on the subject (7 December) reported the opinion

of Herman Nyman, director of Nordisk resebureau, a travel agency in Gothenburg. While in London he had spoken to an English architect, who had told him that just as Jugendstil had died, so too would funkis—​only more quickly. It would, Nyman thought, be a shame to destroy Avenyn; one should, he argued, remove the shops that had already opened on the street. Here then, for all intents and purposes, the debate, such as it was, stopped. Letter writers contributed their comments (“Why this storm in a teacup? By all means let’s build funkis but let’s get rid of that ‘unhappy building’ ”) but the newspaper ceased to devote its resources to fuel the debate.91 Resentment about these changes to the street hung on and attached itself to Asplund’s courthouse extension two years later. In November 1936 a column by “Colomba” (Eva von Zweigbergk) entitled Vy från Göteborg (View from Gothenburg) connected the redevelopment of Avenyn to Asplund’s project. With the opening of a corset shop (Spirellasalongen) at number 29, she too linked funkis to sexual license, though here through the somewhat improbable figure of Axel Romdahl: “Think now about that dangerous canary-​ yellow office building that jumped into a venerable 1880s nine-room-​style apartment complex on Avenyn. Of course, that’s how Åhrén will have the city. ‘It’s worst at night,’ snorts Professor Romdahl, ‘with the corset salon’s shop windows on the second floor, lighting up the frolicsome girls who stand there and look seductive in their panties.’ ”92 In short, the controversy around Avenyn showed that an element in Gothenburg resisted encroachment of the new into historic districts. It also demonstrated how a single newspaper might try to exploit an interest group’s position to stir debate (and possibly raise its circulation). M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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In the case of Avenyn, however, Göteborgs-​ tidningen was unable to ignite the wider community to protest change, and the main architectural critic at a newspaper in the capital city actually supported development. By contrast, the case of the concert hall represents a near-​perfect reading of public taste in Gothenburg by an architect and building committee. A concert hall had been part of Götaplatsen from the time of the competition for the square, and even as the program developed, it joined the art museum and the city theater as the third building on Gothenburg’s cultural Capitolium. The slow pace of development has already been noted above: the art museum completed for the Jubilee Exhibition; the city theater competition started shortly thereafter, in 1924. Plans for a new concert hall, estimated to cost between 3 and 4 million kronor, were on hold—​both for economic and architectural reasons. On the night of 13 January 1928, however, the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra’s wooden concert hall on the Heden parade ground (Exercisheden) burned to the ground. In the wake of the fire, the Orchestra Society moved to assemble funds and plans for a new building, now securely planned to fill out the square.93 Some funds had already been collected, and the building committee set about to find more, ultimately holding an architectural competition, announced in January 1931.94 The competition produced forty-​four entries, with first prize awarded to the architect Ville Tommos (1897–1968), whose entry recalled Adolf Loos’s project for Les Milandes, the Parisian house of Josephine Baker (1928). Nils Einar Eriksson took the second prize: his interior praised, his exterior (along with all the other exteriors) criticized by the jury as a “freely handled variant of the composition of the theater façade.”95 In short, none of the projects received 162

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full approval, and the building committee decided on a second competition, ultimately awarding the commission to Eriksson. The jury, on which sat the Gothenburg architect Sigfrid Ericson and Carl Bergsten, architect of the city theater, praised Eriksson’s entry for lightness and for the skill with which the architect combined three stories into a two-​story profile. The functionalist interior space, shaped around acoustic principles, was a special attraction.96 The concert hall joined the city theater and the art museum to complete Götaplatsen (fig. 120). A proximate model for the exterior was Sven Markelius’s concert hall in Helsingborg (competition, 1916; completed 1932), a decidedly modernist structure (fig. 121). Gothenburg’s building committee must have been aware that a new direction in architecture was at hand, but they must also have been convinced that it was not a direction they could afford for a building that had to face Götaplatsen. Acoustics were a scientific matter and could respond to the modernist rationality (fig. 122); the exterior needed to take account of the ambitions of the new square and the traditions of Avenyn even as Götaplatsen narrowly avoided the danger of monumental symmetry. When Asplund started design of the courthouse extension in 1934, puzzling his associates with his proposal that the building have a traditional exterior and a modern interior, he may also have had Eriksson’s approach to the concert hall in mind. It would not have been a bad place for Asplund to start, and one year before the unveiling of the courthouse-​extension façade, he could even have seen the results of Eriksson’s design process and known the enthusiastic response of the patrons and the Gothenburg public to the building. As Birger Beckman wrote in Handelstidningen, in a full-​page report on the building’s completion: “Nils Einar Eriksson has accepted

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Figure 120 Nils Einar Eriksson, Gothenburg Concert Hall, 1935. Respectful of the classical character of Götaplatsen, the orderless columns and simple rectangular form recall the developments of modernism. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm. Figure 121 Sven Markelius, Helsingborg Concert Hall, 1934. In 1925 the city held an invited competition for the concert hall, won by Markelius, whose initial designs were strongly classical. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

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Figure 122 Nils Einar Eriksson, Gothenburg Concert Hall, 1935, main hall. Eriksson covered the walls of the interior with sycamore maple to create one of the world’s great acoustics. From Göteborgs konserthus: Berättelse avgiven av Stadsfullmäktiges byggnadskommitté för konserthuset vid invigningen den 4 okt. 1935 (Gothenburg: Medén, 1935).

the essentials of functionalism without bothering himself too much about the exterior, which has been the movement’s agreed-​upon identifying mark. He has built his building from the inside out, from the large sounding box, the idea and goal of the whole.”97 Eriksson’s building effectively bridged tradition and modernity. The rectangular façade consisted of a single-​story base over a flight of stairs and, above, a two-​story glass-​fronted hall screened by eight columns without bases or capitals. Eriksson may well have been impressed with Markelius’s ability to flood the foyer with light from a large glass window over the entry at Helsingborg and may 164

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have adapted it to his design, disguising its modernity with the orderless columns. Eriksson, however, faced the concert hall with light marble sheets (not Markelius’s white stucco) and built the body from yellow bricks to pick up the same brick color of the art museum. The main hall, by contrast, wholly rejects historical or contextual precedent. It is built largely on one level, with flanking wings slightly raised; the wall surface consists of sycamore maple sheets attached to a concrete skeleton, creating a vast interior shell. Along the sides the wall surface is separated into wide panels that blend into the ceiling. Often compared to the interior of a musical instrument, a violin or a

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cello, the effect is of an abstracted streamlined moderne. Eriksson began with acoustical studies, “diagrams” that show his understanding of the movement of sound waves, and he consulted conductors, composers, and musicians, most notably his chess partner, the violinist Emil Telmányi, the son-in-​law of the Danish composer Carl Nielsen.98 In the public spaces around the orchestra hall Eriksson combined modern formal elements with a rich color palette. The newspaper commentary was extensive and entirely positive. From Handelstidningen and Göteborgs-​posten the first night received two reviews each (of the building and the first concert) as well as reports on the banquet at the Exchange Building. All the other newspapers filled their columns with articles and comments. Even Göteborgs-​tidningen, skeptical about developments on Avenyn, thought it a “monumental building without precedent in the country,” and the paper described the interior as “a functionalist cathedral.” And the building, as journalists noted, was thoroughly democratic: with a single entrance for everyone, a cloakroom immediately alongside the inner street of the entry hall, a singular open promenade, and an undifferentiated flat concert hall without balconies. “The New Concert Hall Democratic: All Hear Well” (Nya konserthuset demokratiskt: Alla höra bra) was the headline in one newspaper, and in the review for Byggmästaren the architect Helge Zimdahl, though he remained dissatisfied with the design of Götaplatsen, noted how the “technical acoustic demands for the equal partition of sound to all seats in the space have led to a democratization of the concert hall itself.”99 Even Axel Romdahl thought the building well adapted to the site and admired the upstairs foyer, the interior, and the display of artworks

throughout the building. Romdahl even helped prepare a special brochure for his remarks. The publisher is not identified, but it was probably published on the initiative of the concert hall itself.100 Ragnar Josephson, in a later commentary in Handelstidningen dated June 1936, confirmed the public taste for Eriksson’s form of moderation respecting contemporary architecture.101 In December Eriksson replaced Ernst Torulf (who had died) on the city building commission, a sign of his favor.102 Yet the absence of opposition to the hall may also reflect a dearth of courage among its critics than a wealth of merit in the building itself. Not only did the building convince all of the city’s aesthetic leaders, but the building committee for the hall brought together the most important figures from the city’s major power bases. The chairman of the committee was Hjalmar Wijk (1877–1965), the son of Carolina Wijk, whose gift had laid the financial foundation for a new concert hall. Hjalmar Wijk’s fortune had come from timber products, and he served as a director for many of Gothenburg’s cultural institutions, as a politician (member of Parliament and president of the Gothenburg City Council), and as a company director for banks, railroads, and mining companies. Among the other members of the building committee were Malte Jacobsson (1885–1966), the Social Democratic landshöv­ding (county governor) and professor of philosophy in Gothenburg, and Herman Mannheimer (1867–1942), director of the Gothenburg branch of the bank Skandinaviska kreditaktiebolaget. It was a committee that provided economic and political standing for a building that carefully managed an extraordinarily difficult location.103 In that respect the concert hall very effectively demonstrates that the zone at the end of Avenyn was open for M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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experimentation in a public forum at this time. Materials, scale, and decorum—​the appearance of historical continuity with the proximate buildings—​seem to have weighed in public response to the new building. The interior was functionalist in a traditional material. Finally, the approval of the city’s aesthetic and political leaders did no harm at all, and the fact that they proceeded swiftly from competition to construction left little time for objections to form or for tastes to change. Those who might have wanted something more adventurous or who still found Götaplatsen oppressively monumental remained largely silent. Music and Modernism Architecture, however, was not the only area of culture wrestling with modernism. The comparatively new medium of film faced problems in gaining the public’s acceptance as an art form.104 Theater also presented issues that touched political and cultural life, though Gothenburg enthusiastically employed some of Europe’s most advanced scene designers and directors. Poul Kanneworff (1896–1958), who worked at the Stora teatern in Gothenburg from 1920 to 1936, introduced modern theatrical design principles to public acclaim.105 Knut Ström (introduced in chapter 4) worked as theater director at the Lorensberg Theater from 1925 and then at the Gothenburg City Theater. The case of music, however, provides an especially revealing contrast with architecture, a lesson not just in the management of change but in different styles of public presentation and education. Moreover, since so many people participated in the act of making music (as well as in listening to it), music stood close to the heart of the city’s cultural self-​image. How the city received and presented music to itself provides a revealing contrast to architecture. 166

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Though a commercial city dedicated to trade and economic advancement, Gothenburg between the wars developed a rich musical culture. As Birger Beckman wrote in his review of the concert hall in Handelstidningen, of the three buildings around Götaplatsen it was the most beautiful. That was to be expected: “Music has been the most cherished of the arts in our city, and now it also has the most elegant home.”106 Musical culture, as the music historian Olle Edström has shown, was highly developed in Gothenburg.107 Wilhelm Stenhammar (1871–1927), the artistic director and chief conductor of Gothenburg’s symphony orchestra (1907–22), programmed a certain amount of contemporary music (Atterberg, Alfvén, Sibelius, Strauss, Mahler) and, from 1918 to 1922, after placing his own mark on the orchestra, hired the Danish composer Carl Nielsen (1865–1931) as a regular substitute conductor.108 Nielsen, along with Jean Sibelius and Edvard Grieg, was the leading Nordic composer of the day and someone keen to stay abreast of the current cultural climate.109 He had begun his career under Johan Svendsen (1840–1911), the Norwegian composer and conductor of the Royal Opera in Copenhagen, and was strongly influenced by Johannes Brahms, whom he met briefly and awkwardly in Vienna in 1894. He also knew a number of the leading modernist composers (Bela Bartók, Zoltan Kodaly, Arnold Schoenberg, Igor Stravinsky) and had heard performances of their music. As the music historian Jan Maegaard has written, Nielsen pursued musical practices that reveal his developing modernity: an increasing freedom from classical patterns, counterpoint leading to freedom from harmonic control, the expansion of sections characterized by fluctuating harmony, and an increased use of dissonance.110 Daniel M. Grimley argues

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that Nielsen’s modernity consists in the “fragmented and unpredictable character” of his works.111 Yet Nielsen never strayed far from tonality. Although he did not believe in a nationalist music, his devotion to melody—​his songs remain popular and are a staple of Danish choirs—​and his ability to express the wind-​ blown open spirit of the Danish landscape always resound in his compositions. He also was especially sensitive to the sound of spoken Danish. The musicologist Stephen Johnson has noted the connection between the tonal character of spoken Danish and his use of thirds, suggesting that Nielsen captured, intentionally or not, the music of his native language.112 Nielsen was particularly attuned to the musical quality of Danish poetry and praised the composer Thomas Laub (1857–1927) for his ability to capture the sounds of language.113 Thus Nielsen’s modernity sat within the context of the familiar. Even so, Nielsen’s works could split audiences. A work such his Fifth Symphony, with its disruptive snare-​drum climax at the end of the first movement, in which the drummer is instructed to improvise “as though at all costs to disturb the music,” challenged concertgoers and critics.114 At the premiere in Stockholm (21 January 1924), it drove concertgoers from their seats, or so a Danish critic wrote.115 The Stockholm press was divided—​ some extremely positive but some questioning whether it was even music.116 Herman Glimstedt, writing in the politically moderate (i.e., conservative) newspaper Aftonbladet, described the orchestra as seeking “to express some Katzenjammer sound after a night’s jubilee jazz program in the Blue Hall [the main hall in Stockholm’s city hall].”117 But the same work, played under Nielsen’s direction almost two years earlier in Gothenburg (8 March 1922), had quite a different result.118

Not only did the critics in Gothenburg praise the Fifth Symphony, but the newspapers and the critics carefully explained the work for their readers. On 7 March 1922, in an interview for Handelstidningen, Nielsen outlined to readers what they would hear that evening and provided a short guide to the work: “I intended that the first movement would be distinguished by a totally passive state of things in relation to the nature that I have walked out into.”119 When reviews came, the press was positive, patient, and reflective. The reviewer for Göteborgs-​posten begged indulgence. “It is naturally endlessly difficult to say, after a first fleeting acquaintance with something that for the mind and the ears is so large a work . . . , what is stimulating in this symphony.” In fact, the reviewer went on to describe very well the struggles within the work (the battling snare drum) and what he characterized as an idyllic quality within the first movement. Importantly, the reviewer also set Nielsen’s Fifth Symphony within the context of his work as a whole: “Carl Nielsen has not given his Fifth Symphony a name, as was the case for three of his preceding works. It is music—​as he himself has taken the opportunity to say—​music so beautiful and good as I can make, music without a program, but with line, which is opposed to all of the other newest directions, where that drawing is often missing.”120 The review concluded with a report of the audience’s enthusiastic applause. Julius Rabe, in the most searching description of the work in Handelstidningen, sympathized with those who could not understand the work, but assured them that they had heard something “new and large” that “asks to be heard again, in a couple of weeks, while one still has the first impression freshly in mind.”121 The symphony was “a new proof of the rich fantasy and originality that M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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distinguishes Carl Nielsen as a musical creator,” and Rabe analyzed the work movement by movement, in the context of Nielsen’s work and then in the context of music as whole, the last section reminding him of Beethoven’s late quartets. Nielsen’s Fifth Symphony also received critical coverage in other papers: “M. Rt” in Göteborgs morgonpost took the link to nature literally, hearing in the work sounds from the Copenhagen parks, Dyrehaven and the Eremitage.122 “Premo,” writing in Göteborgs-​ tidningen, recognized the difficulty of the work but identified Nielsen as a true innovator and discussed the work in the context of his earlier symphonies.123 Even Ny tid offered a positive assessment. Hard it might be to get a full impression on one hearing, but “there is humor and seriousness, romance and realism, together with, finally, enormous power and grandiosity that impresses. One never sits for a moment uninterested without being pulled ineluctably forward.”124 In short, music critics not only gave their opinion but contextualized a difficult and challenging work in a cultural and historical frame that related both to the composer and to the composer’s world. Cultural debate in Gothenburg around music was often vigorous and, unlike architecture, generally well informed.125 A conductor and composer such as Stenhammar might even step into public view to defend the work of another composer. Thus a review by John Atterbom in Handelstidningen of a December 1917 performance of Mahler’s Fourth Symphony provoked Stenhammar’s comments, and Stenhammar’s observations even elicited support from Barthold Lundén in the newspaper Vidi.126 Newspapers such as Handelstidningen and Göteborgs-​posten could run as many as three separate articles on different days about a single concert—​with an article the day before 168

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the concert, explaining the program or focusing on a specific work; a shorter notice on the day of the concert, announcing the special attraction of the performance that evening; and then a review the following day.127 Occasionally articles from correspondents abroad informed the reading public about musical events in Germany, England, and even New York.128 The quality and range of music and music criticism was high.129 All papers, even those that covered music less extensively, had their critic-​expert. The composer Hilding Rosenberg worked as music critic for Göteborgs-​tidningen in 1921; Gunnar Jeanson (1898–1939) wrote for Handelstidningen, 1930–32; Birger Anrep-​Nordin (1888–1946) reviewed for Göteborgs-​posten, 1924–30, and then for Göteborgs morgonpost, 1933–36. And there were others, such as Knut Håkansson (Handelstidningen), Knut Bäck (Göteborgs-​posten), and Carl Tillius (Göteborgs morgonpost). They were all well educated, well traveled, and musically sophisticated and to fulfill their jobs must have lived in (or near) the city.130 Two critics stand out: Julius Rabe, who worked first as a music critic for Handelstidningen from 1918 to 1927 and later for Göteborgs morgontidning, and the composer and painter Gösta Nystroem (1890–1966), who wrote for Handelstidningen from 1933 to 1947. Rabe represented the public face of music in Gothenburg, much as Romdahl did for art. In addition to his work as a journalist, he organized concerts, gave public lectures, introduced children’s concerts, and worked as a pianist. He was “everywhere in the musical life of Gothenburg.”131 He was also a supporter and friend of Carl Nielsen, translated Nielsen’s autobiography into Swedish (1947), and wrote an early and lengthy appreciation of the composer in which he outlined the need to explain modern music to the public.132 He also strongly

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supported the work of Paul Hindemith.133 Nystroem had studied composition in Paris with the composers Vincent d’Indy and Leonid Sabaneyev and was one of the first Swedish Cubist painters as well. On his return to Sweden in 1932, he worked as a curator at Göteborgs Konsthall, the contemporary exhibition hall, where he remained until 1936. Unsympathetic to jazz (a common bias among classical-​ music critics in the early 1930s), Nystroem wrote warmly about Anton Webern, the young Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Dmitri Shostakovich, Paul Hindemith (a special favorite), and his friend Albert Roussel.134 Among Nordic composers he favored Sibelius, Nielsen, and his near contemporaries, the Swedish composers Kurt Atterberg (1897–1974) and Hilding Rosenberg.135 Nystroem used the occasion of overview articles (on English music, on the Soviet Union, on music abroad in general) to fill his readers in on musical events elsewhere.136 In April 1937 he reported sympathetically on two concerts in Stockholm, one featuring Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire, which consumed much of the two-and-a-half-​column full-​page review, and the other, works by Shostakovich and the Swedish composer Dag Wirén.137 In May 1937, for example, he reported to his readers on the International Society for Contemporary Music festival in Paris.138 In short, newspapers provided not only regular coverage of music but also recognizable local experts to interpret current events.139 This is not to suggest that all critics were modernists or prepared to understand modern music—​far from it; ​a number were horrified by the music of Mahler, Bartók, and Hindemith, and even Debussy could be considered an exotic species. But the management of modernism by the programmers was sensitive to the tastes of the audience and critics.140 For

all intents and purposes, during the interwar period no one in Gothenburg ever heard the works of the Second Viennese school in a major concert venue. Julius Rabe conceded after a concert in 1923, including Verklärte Nacht, that Schoenberg’s music would never come to be “close to the heart for many people.”141 The Viennese soprano Hertha Glatz (1908–1975) sang a single aria (“Song of the Forest Dove”) from Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder in November 1936 in a performance that Gösta Nystroem felt was insufficiently emotional.142 In 1937 Nystroem provided a lengthy and relatively sympathetic discussion of Schoenberg’s compositional techniques.143 (Perhaps cognoscenti played these works privately.) In 1935 Gustaf Bergman, the head of the Stora teatern, decided against Dmitri Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, a work that had premiered in St. Petersburg in January 1934, in favor of something altogether more popular: Ambrose Thomas’s Mignon (first production, 1866), a charming but altogether inconsequential work.144 Yet over time the press sustained alternative interpretations, both positive and negative, about musical modernity. Some, like Gösta Nystroem, could focus their reviews on comparatively novel works: in a review of a concert from December 1936 including Vivaldi (Concerto in D Minor) and Brahms (Second Symphony), he devoted most of the review to the third work on the program, Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder.145 If the programmers avoided the extremes of modernism, it could be said that they knew their audience, knew their critics, and perhaps knew their own taste.146 Although concertgoers did not have a chance to hear the most advanced modern works in the two major concert halls (either at the location in Heden or, from October 1935, at the new concert hall), about a quarter of the M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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works played by the symphony orchestra were by living composers, and of those almost half were by Swedes.147 Carl Nielsen, who spent weeks at a time in Gothenburg as a substitute for Wilhelm Stenhammar, often expressed his approval of the city’s musical culture. As he wrote in a letter to Stenhammar, 20 March 1922, twelve days after the premiere of the Fifth Symphony: “Listen! Gothenburg overall has a high and noble nimbus. Despite the city’s provincial character and the stamp of business and industry, it has a standing in musical culture, a truly artistic spirit, and has an unusual tradition of freedom!”148 Outside the court cities of Stockholm and Copenhagen, a country boy like Nielsen could feel at home, his music welcomed with curiosity by a self-​made industrial class keen to improve its own cultural standing. Music is fleeting, to be sure, and architecture endures; similarly, protests of the two take different forms, for architectural culture and musical culture were channeled in quite different ways. For music, the Gothenburg public press was the point of exchange, with each newspaper offering an authority that regularly delivered a judgment on the musical events of the day. Readers could write in or, if a critic disappointed them, change newspapers or, for the occasion, buy a second newspaper. For architecture, by contrast, the newspaper was the place to air one’s opinion only when normal processes had, for one reason or another, proven ineffective.149 In Stockholm there were two critics who often took on architecture (along with other aspects of the visual arts), Gotthard Johansson (writing for Svenska dagbladet) and Gustaf Näsström (writing for Stockholms dagblad). In Gothenburg, no critic had regular responsibility for architecture. Edvard Alkman, the best of Gothenburg’s critics in the first decades of the twentieth century, 170

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wrote for Göteborgs-​posten on all aspects of culture in addition to architecture. Active also in Stockholm, he wrote infrequently in the 1930s (and died in 1937). Writing from Stockholm, the critic Ragnar Josephson, whose sister Vera married the composer Hilding Rosenberg, tended not to focus on local issues.150 As Axel Romdahl, described at one point as the city’s “sexton” in aesthetic matters (“Göteborgs estetiske klockarfar”), observed about the role of the press when the protests against the courthouse extension façade were at their height: “There is, in addition, a weak link. The Gothenburg press lacks an architecture critic. The newspapers refer indulgently to buildings in the making, and thereafter public opinion can hasten them along. But the critic should strike early, clearly and penetratingly; it won’t do to sit there and say ‘that should be good enough.’ ”151 Romdahl’s vision of a critic who would sit as gatekeeper may have been naïve, but he identified a “weak link” in discussion and debate. In effect, the population of Sweden’s second city interacted with architecture as if they still lived in a place where knowledge of the world outside was limited and the only implements of protest available were sticks and stones. In that respect, 1930s Gothenburg reveals the tensions of a modern society interacting with nineteenth-​century methods of collective thinking about architecture.152 As a way of advancing the best architectural projects and engaging the public, European and American society in the mid- and late nineteenth century had developed the architectural competition.153 Much debated and disputed, the competition offered architects a hearing in a marketplace tightly controlled by distinguished peers (who dominated the juries), and ensured a continuing place for experts in the democratic society. Community values—​some voice for

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the people—​could be guaranteed by the service of local leaders on the juries. What better way to find the best than trial by jury (especially when the names of the participants were hidden by mottoes)? Local public representatives and outside experts could then together validate the best. In effect, it was the system, still much disputed, in place when Asplund won the courthouse-​extension competition and that then modified his solution in light of local values. Competitions had their weaknesses, however.154 Juries were imperfect instruments subject to outside influence or a particularly strong jury member. Violations of the rules (by competitors and by the juries themselves) provoked angry protests and led to endlessly complicated political maneuvers. Only with difficulty could results be overturned, as when Wilhelm Manchot, a German architect, won the competition for the Nordic Museum (Stockholm, 1883), violating an unwritten stipulation that the winner be Swedish.155 In cases of extreme protest a new jury could be impaneled, as in the competition for the Gothenburg Large Customs House (1863), but the momentum of bureaucratic decision making generally favored pressing ahead.156 Though competition reduced certain kinds of favoritism, it hardly guaranteed a level playing field, and it opened architecture to forces it had not experienced before. Entering a competition was costly, and the temptation to redeploy an earlier scheme was great. The complexity of the program, poor timing, and specifications of one sort or another might limit the entry pool. Those who longed for a higher and potentially more spiritual meeting of the minds between patron and architect found that competitions often reduced architecture to a Darwinian “survival of the fittest.” Yet as the English architect Edward Middleton Barry (1830–1880), third son of the architect Charles

Barry, observed, “We live in an age which has elevated competition into almost a religion, and has applied it very extensively to public life.”157 One unintended long-​term side effect of the competition as a mode for judging architecture was the place architecture was granted in society as whole, at least in Sweden. By casting architecture as an occasional dispute among professionals, many of whom spoke out publicly only when they felt a grievous wrong had been done, architecture became a subject for public concern only in periods of clamorous dispute. Since it was a process largely hidden from sight, the competition did not educate the public broadly in architecture and urban planning—​there was, it must be assumed, no market to justify a newspaper’s hire of someone to specialize in this field and, perhaps, even no market from which to pick such a writer. In 1936, for example, during the formation of the Svenska arkitekters riksförbund, the architects’ professional organization, the founders sent invitations to only 510 architects.158 (By contrast, music seems to have had a regular supply—​indeed, an oversupply—​ of potential contributors.) In point of fact, the competition process tended to exclude public participation: had the Royal Institute of British Architects had their way in 1872, only professionals would have served on juries.159 For the most part, therefore, architecture made its way into the public press only at moments of high celebration (the opening of a new building) or bitter contestation, as when citizens protested Helsingborg’s plans for their courthouse (1889), when the newspapers in Stockholm skirmished over the jury’s decision concerning Östermalm’s Oscarskyrkan (1895–1896), or when they protested the façade of Asplund’s courthouse extension in October 1936, when it was altogether too late to make any difference.160 M a n aging Modernism s at Home

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Figure 123 Arne Jacobsen and Erik Møller, Aarhus City Hall, competition entry, 1937. From Erik Møller, Jens Lindhe, and Kjeld Vindum, Aarhus City Hall (Copenhagen: Danish Architectural Press, 1991), 8. Courtesy of Jørn Møller and Arkitektens forlag, Copenhagen.

The results of a competition held in Denmark at roughly the same time provide an interesting contrast. In August 1937, Arne Jacobsen and Erik Møller won a competition to build a new city hall in Aarhus to celebrate the 450th anniversary of the town’s foundation. The building, as designed by the architects, was comparatively boxlike: a balcony and portico marked the entrance, but it was clearly a building in modern style (fig. 123). The local newspapers echoed public dissatisfaction, and as a result, Povl Drachmann (1871–1941), a member of the Conservative Party (Konservative Folkeparti) and a member of Parliament, published a critical commentary in the Copenhagen newspaper Berlingske Tidende.161 Drachmann’s positions on modern architecture were not out of the ordinary: he described it as characterless and designed without reference to national traditions and values. Among his 172

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(many) objections was the fact that the building lacked a tower (and failed to look like a city hall) and that the architects had proposed building it in concrete. Drachmann’s commentary was answered in Politiken, another Copenhagen newspaper, by Poul Henningsen (1894–1967) in an article entitled “Aarhus and Reason.”162 Henningsen, an architect, author, and artist, was well known as an advocate of modernism and in his defense of the building referred to the dangerous development of historicist public architecture in Germany, Italy, and Russia. The difference from Sweden is already notable: instead of the architect himself awkwardly defending his own building, a surrogate took up the burden, and less than a week later Henningsen and Drachmann engaged in a discussion on modern architecture, which was then reported in the pages of Politiken. Both parties had the chance to

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air their opinions: Drachmann, for example, argued that concrete was not a local material; Henningsen, that concrete was just as much a local material as stone. In short, the newspaper became the site of exchange and discussion, with both parties meeting face-to-​face (as a photograph reveals) and both signing the article as a proper representation of their conversation.163 In Aarhus, meanwhile, the Social Democratic mayor, Han Peder Christiansen (1869–1945), specified a new exterior material (stone rather than concrete) and a tower for the new building—​both ultimately provided by Jacobsen and Møller to general satisfaction (fig. 124).164 In short, what prompted the damaging discussions in Gothenburg was not inevitable. In Aarhus the architects were still at the design stage, when changes were possible. Christiansen effectively supported the architect’s conception (against those who wanted nothing to do with modern design) and pressed for attainable compromises that left the original design largely intact but responded to the protesters’ opinions. The Terms of the Times Making public architecture in a time of dramatic change is a challenge; as groups struggle to occupy the public stage, their specific representational needs pose special dilemmas. One might have thought that Asplund’s experiences in Gothenburg at matching a new addition and an older building on a beloved square at the heart of an old city would have put architects off the undertaking. But the

evidence proves the reverse. What happened in Gothenburg was anomalous. At the same time as Gothenburg took governmental funds for the extension of the courthouse, three other towns elsewhere in Sweden, Ludvika, Halmstad, and Kristianstad, took money for similar undertakings with results that were no less inventive but with much less public clamor. Asplund’s building also influenced other Nordic architects. Arne Jacobsen in Denmark and Alvar Aalto in Finland instantly understood what Asplund had tried to do. Their efforts and the activities of those who saw the importance of developing a new language of modernism for public architecture—​however much they stammered—​are the subject of the next chapter.

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Figure 124 Arne Jacobsen and Erik Møller, Aarhus City Hall, 1939. The view somewhat disguises the monumentality of the building as seen from the center of the town. Aarhus stiftstidende.

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Public Architecture After Asplund

Chap ter 6

w

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he completion of Asplund’s courthouse extension depended on immense good fortune. It was not just, as Torgny Segerstedt had written, that it had been rescued by the unemployment crisis; two uncertain competitions for building and square had already come before that. Even in 1933, as the possibility of construction turned to probability, opponents to Asplund among the judiciary would have been justified in demanding yet another competition. And whatever his faith in Asplund the man, it is not clear that Bernhard Lindberg, the chief magistrate, understood Asplund the modernist architect. In the end, neither architect nor judge could move the city (or anyone else) to provide their building with the sculpture they both thought it needed. In that final piece of bad fortune rests a further historical irony, for it was the building’s very lack of sculpture, its complex use of abstraction and omission of figuration, that made it so appealing to postmodernists in the 1970s. That part of the story forms the coda to this chapter. The body of the chapter addresses the question whether any lessons about the construction of public buildings in the 1930s can be drawn from the courthouse extension. In the context of experience in Sweden, how is the somewhat accidental history of Gothenburg’s courthouse typical of public buildings? Does the history of its novelty

help in mapping the rocky path of public architecture elsewhere Europe? Gothenburg’s replacement of its ragged former Governor’s House was indicative of the widespread banal need for more space for judicial and administrative activities as municipalities expanded their populations and responsibilities in the interwar period. Typical too was the potential for communal pride in a new building and crosscurrents of opinion that rolled across it. Asplund’s was a better building than most, and the opposition more determined, to be sure, but there is much that is familiar even here. Also typical was the sensitivity to matching old and new. Almost without exception, public building throughout Europe shows architects duplicating the materials, cornice lines, window forms, colors, and scale of old structures on the new public buildings in their orbit. It was how they displayed their loyalty to history and tradition. By 1902, in fact, this kind of coordination had become so common that the Austrian architect Otto Wagner, a true progressive, lamented that in “one of the most recent competitions for a city hall, the architects as well as the professional and nonprofessional jurors went to great pains to bring the proposed building into harmony with the old ‘painterly’ surroundings. They . . . never considered that the rebuilding of the

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Figure 125 Erik Friberger, Kungsbacka Town Hall, 1933–35, view from the train station. The building was also a hotel (with entrance at the corner). The center of town is to the left. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

city hall would have resulted in the renovation of all surrounding houses, so that in the end an ‘old’ city hall would have been encircled by modern houses.”1 Rare was an architect like Willem Dudok, who would challenge a potential client on this point, as he did with his entry for an addition to the city hall in Leiden in 1930. He did not believe in close coordination between old and new.2 Even Le Corbusier assured his patrons that the new Palace of the Soviets (1931–32) had achieved “both a material and spiritual unity” with the Kremlin.3 Asplund certainly provided ample evidence to show how old and new fit together in Gothenburg. Looking at municipal buildings elsewhere in Sweden from the same period broadens the picture of how novelty could be introduced. In each instance the local support was stronger than that for Asplund’s building in Gothenburg

and each reveals how important were conditions on the ground. The buildings are a city hall designed by Erik Friberger in Kungsbacka (inaugurated December 1935), a courthouse extension designed by Erik and Tore Ahlsén in Kristianstad (inaugurated August 1937), a combination courthouse and city hall designed by Yngve Ahlbom and Nils Sterner in Halmstad (inaugurated September 1938), and a city hall designed by Cyrillus Johansson in Ludvika (inaugurated December 1937). Asplund’s design shocked, to be sure, but thirty kilometers to the south of Gothenburg, in Kungsbacka, the provincial architect Erik Friberger built a distinctly modernist city hall to general public approval (fig. 125). It was a low, flat-​roofed, abstract structure. Friberger set the main entrance at one corner of the building, giving it a somewhat streamlined

P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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effect, and although it faces the old town, only a hundred meters or so away, the building is located across from the train station and outside the urban core. The newspaper Hallandsposten headlined its coverage of the inauguration thus: “Kungsbacka: In many respects Halland’s very remarkable town. The town grows with American speed.”4 Friberger prepared the ground well. In 1929, when the project started, he submitted two designs (now lost) for the building, which he described as follows: “Alternative 1 is in a more traditional spirit, and alternative 2 connects more closely to our time and therefore should be preferred.”5 In the end the more modern design won out—​ albeit after some delay. It even won over skeptics. As the oldest member of the Kungsbacka Town Council commented at the inauguration, “We have forgotten the rather critical attitude we had toward the functionalist style when work began. . . . [W]e’ve gotten used to its clean lines and white façade and would now hardly like a building with a pointed roof and tower and little frills here and there.”6 Helped by the site and by the passage of time, the town reconciled happily with modernity. At its inauguration the local poet Tofte Hylander wrote a fourteen-​verse celebratory poem beginning with a sharp-​eyed assessment of the building’s modernity: But look at the building’s exterior symbolism. The solid block is a picture of power and unity. The white color is the pure intent that all had and have, who work in communal service. . . . There was, to judge by the local newspaper, complete satisfaction in Kungsbacka.7 176

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At Kristianstad, in southern Sweden, time also allowed the architects to build a more modern courthouse extension than originally planned. The program entailed removing the Rosendal building, an anonymous brick structure next to a grand Second Empire courthouse. Here the design problem was almost identical to Gothenburg’s, but the political situation was slightly different: the jury consisted of Asplund, the modernist architect Paul Hedqvist, the local merchant and chairman of the town council Bengt Johan Jönsson (1878– 1963), and two others. The jury awarded first prize to the entry of Asplund’s assistants, Erik and Tore Ahlsén, who, perhaps influenced by their experiences with the Gothenburg design, presented a proposal that lined the roof with sculpture, giving something of the effect of Andrea Palladio’s Palazzo Chiericati, Vicenza. Even so, Bengt Johan Jönsson expressed his reservations about all of the entries, dissatisfied with their treatments of the façade and their “lack of consideration for the image of the city on the square.”8 In general the Kristianstad public, as sampled by a reporter at the council chamber, where all thirty-​eight entries were displayed, seems to have shared their councilor’s reservations, and the discussion that followed in the newspapers was critical of the results.9 One entry, whose motto was “Tradis,” possibly by the architect Th. Bergents, proposed a Second Empire addition, just like the neighboring courthouse, that was illustrated in the local newspaper under the headline “Appealing Proposal,” and the caption approvingly described its “connection to traditional Kristianstad style without opening to modern points of view.”10 Nonetheless, the jury’s decision was upheld. The Ahlséns removed the statues from the roof, and despite murmurs about costs from Jönsson, the building went

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Figure 126 Erik and Tore Ahlsén, Kristianstad Courthouse and extension, 1935–37, as seen from Stora torget. The “bridge” between old and new has three different decorative patterns to mark the connection: alternating stones, diagonal stripes, and a simple trabeated frame.

ahead (fig. 126).11 In fact, the design is relatively simple, with stripes echoing the polychromy of the old courthouse, recalling similar experiments at Asplund’s Bredenberg Department Store, Stockholm (1933–35), where the Ahlséns had also worked. Despite some skirmishing around questions of modernity, the building met with general approval—​or at least with public silence. What saved the courthouse from more severe criticism? It could simply have been a matter of fine design, but more probably it was the site. Stora torget was (and still is) ringed relatively tightly by other large public buildings from the nineteenth century, and here, perhaps, the relatively anonymity of the

addition and the acknowledged modernity of the surroundings were virtues. The older and bigger neighbors clearly dominated the new building. In Halmstad, a combination city hall and law court illustrates another way novelty could be introduced into public architecture.12 Here art took on a significant role, playing on the image of the town as home to the arts. (Halmstad is noted as the base for the Halmstad Group, a well-​known school of modern painters, and the town had been one of the main entry points for modernism into Sweden.) The new building offered an occasion to celebrate that heritage, a heritage that demanded P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 127 Yngve Ahlbom and Nils Stirner, Halmstad Town Hall, 1936–38, and the Appeltofft Building, as seen from Stora torget. The specification of materials and the simple geometry of the new building make an effective connection between old and new. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

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modernity. The competition drew fifty-​five entrants, including some of the most prominent architects of the day, and the jury awarded the first prize to Yngve Ahlbom (1903–1958) and Nils Sterner (1904–1990), two young architects from Stockholm.13 The site posed an interesting problem. As the result of an earlier consultation with the architect Ivar Tengbom (for whom Ahlbom had worked), who delivered his report in the summer of 1933, it was decided to place the new building on the main square of the town but to leave in place the venerable Appeltofft Building, a seventeenth-​ century half-​timbered hospital, later taken

over by the Appeltofft family as a café and small restaurant.14 Tengbom’s report stipulated brick as the material for the new building, and the town council, in their instructions to the jury, specified that the new building’s “scale and composition happily join the surrounding buildings with its relatively homogenous character and good measurements.”15 Finding a way to echo the Appeltofft Building without repeating its forms was one key to winning the competition.16 Ahlbom and Sterner pulled their building back from the street line, and drawings show the pair thinking through the support system as a skeletal frame to match the

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older building. The windows facing the square opened into the most important public rooms: the meeting rooms of the town council and the finance committee, and the main courtroom (fig. 127). The building’s flat roof, abstract form, and asymmetrical windows marked its modernity, while the brick exterior resonated with its neighbor. Despite some objections from the public and from the architect Ragnar Östberg, who thought any modern building in that location would give the entire area “the character of transience,” the town council ratified the decision of the jury.17 The building dimmed the traditional iconography and typological character of the town hall and eliminated historical ornament. Decoration with art inside and out, however, recalled the tradition of public architecture for which, ironically, given his criticism of the building, Östberg’s city hall in Stockholm was the natural model, with its own extensive artistic decoration.18 Thirty low-​relief scenes from city life, the work of the local sculptor Bernhard Anderson, decorated the brick exterior, and on the inside the architects made a plea for the work of specific artists. “The artistic decoration of a building is in intimate connection with the expression of the entire building,” the architects wrote when it seemed that the glass artist Simon Gate (1883–1945) would be selected over Edvin Öhrström (1906–1994), their preference to execute a window above the monumental staircase.19 They won their point. As Abbe W. Bramzelius observed in a lengthy discussion of the decorative program for Form: “This modern architecture both enjoys and favors the arts and crafts. For the common goal of creating a monumental and significant courthouse for art-​loving Halmstad, the artists and craftsmen have been provided with the greatest freedom

in order to elaborate their intentions.” While the architects created the shell, “the artists and craftsmen have filled this out and made the courthouse building into an aesthetic artwork both inside and out.”20 Themes of hard work and modern industry are intermixed with folk legends and images of the landscape around Halmstad. In short, in its presentation of art, Halmstad demonstrated how a modern municipal building could connect to local traditions and respond to popular taste. Its inauguration (24 September 1938), a rapturous celebration that included speeches from national dignitaries and local government leaders, banquets and receptions, was extensively covered in the press. It was everything that did not happen in Gothenburg. The regional newspaper, Halländingen, devoted one issue entirely to the inauguration and reported that opposition to the building had disappeared. Most now, the newspaper reported, said the same thing: “The courthouse is good, it is beautiful, it is impressive.”21 In a speech at the inauguration, Gustav Möller, the Social Democratic minister for social affairs, praised the building for its employment of art and carefully laid out his own position on architectural modernism: “I am no friend of extreme functionalism, but the building, once one is inside, reveals its great beauty with every step one takes. I congratulate the city of Halmstad for this monumental building.” He encouraged others to be “efficient in the decoration of public buildings, where our time’s public life is lived. That is, in the towns’ courthouses and town halls.”22 Halmstad was unusual in its investment in art and craft. What gave the architects Ahlbom and Sterner an advantage was a connection to native themes that reflected municipal life. Celebrated in Halmstad’s artwork were the

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Figure 128 Cyrillus Johansson, Ludvika Town Hall, 1935–37, view from the end of Storgatan, the road leading to the center of town. Sited at the top of a rise, the building displays its southern flank and the clock face to the town. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

people’s own activities and their own history. Ahlbom and Sterner also had the advantage of a shortened time line, as in the Gothenburg Concert Hall: the committee that validated the competition victory became the building committee. Even the decision to preserve the Appeltofft Building had been taken shortly before the competition. Respecting civic wishes was comparatively easy, therefore, and joyous civic engagement followed. At Kungsbacka, Kristianstad, and Halmstad, councils and building committees generally favored a new vision of what might constitute a public building. Not everyone was prepared to rewrite the terms of the debate around public architecture so quickly, however, and interest in well-​conceived buildings of a comparatively traditional form remained. Typologically the 180

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most conventional (though architecturally some of the most interesting) of these public buildings in this period in Sweden were those built by Cyrillus Johansson (1884–1959). Johansson had an unusual profile among Swedish architects. Though a near contemporary of Asplund, he never became a modernist. Attracted to the brick architecture of northern Germany and favoring its earlier modernized representatives such as Theodor Fischer and Heinrich Tessenow, he updated traditional building typologies with new sources, novel proportional schemes, or varied sculptural massing. He described himself as a “romanticist,” by which he meant someone who believed “firmly in the importance of intuition for the ‘scientific’ penetration of professional architectural issues.”23 In the Ludvika City

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Hall (1936–39), for example, he leaned on the medieval traditions of town hall typology with a gable roof and clock tower (fig. 128). As at Halmstad, the architect placed his entry under a trabeated portico, but rather than use more-​ modern square piers, he employed stylized Doric columns with flattened flutes decorated with low-​relief medals and coins, randomly applied as mystical or historical fragments, as if the columns were ancient Pompeiian spolia. Ludvika was, in fact, one of the newly enlarged industrial towns in central Sweden. It had grown with the foundation of Elektriska AB Magnet (today ABB) in 1900, and this new building, with its primitive references, provided allusions to memory and the traditional values of monumentality. Echoing the new functionalist fashion, however, Johansson made the windows square, giving the rectangular body of the building a kind of elemental clarity. Art played a relatively minor role in the building: the most prominent exterior artistic element was the clock, and Johansson rotated it across the gable, oriented toward Storgatan, the main street, and the center of town.24 The inauguration provoked no debate in the public press. In 1939 a singular debate shows that as time went on, historicism could also provoke controversy. In May 1938 in Uppsala, the town architect Gunnar Leche organized a study trip for the councilors, taking in some buildings comparable to the new courthouse the town wanted to build. They visited Jönköping, Halmstad, and Gothenburg—​the latter possibly added to warn the group about the potential dangers of a certain kind of modernity. The building committee (on which Leche served) then arranged for a competition between Leche and Ragnar Östberg. Both produced relatively conventional historicizing entries. Östberg’s proposed building, in brick, recalled his own Patent Office

Building in Stockholm from two decades earlier (1911–21), but without the orders. Leche’s design set a temple front forward from the center of the structure to recall seventeenth- or eighteenth-​century Stockholm palaces such as the House of the Nobles. (In a revised version of his first plan, Leche placed a sculptural frieze within the porch [fig. 129].) Protest came from an unexpected quarter: Gregor Paulsson, who, in addition to being head of the Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts, organizer of the Stockholm Exhibition, and joint author of acceptera, was professor of art history at Uppsala University. He opposed the idea of a limited competition between only two architects, both of whom were relatively conservative. Leche’s design, ultimately selected by the building committee, was the subject of a long and detailed analysis by Paulsson in Upsala nya tidning in June 1939. Two things troubled him: the character of the exterior and the nature of the experience on the interior. On the outside, he wondered whether the temple front, with its P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 129 Gunnar Leche, proposal for Uppsala Courthouse, 1938. Byggnadsnämndens arkiv, Uppsala Stadsarkiv.

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Paulsson, however, argued that alteration was a sign of failure. Exteriors and interiors needed to work harmoniously. “Naturally, one can put a better façade on a courthouse proposal, but it doesn’t become a better building,” he wrote.25 Of the interior he was more specific. What would the experience of a visitor be on entering this building? Leche had provided a perspective drawing of the main stair hall looking across to the central courtyard, and Paulsson provided his own sketch showing what visitors would actually see as they came into the building (fig. 130). Instead of a view across the hall and stairs to the courtyard, as Leche’s design suggested, Paulsson’s sketch showed that all one would see on entering was an anonymous pair of opposing stairs. The view, he argued, was appropriate to a stairwell but little else, creating what he called a “mixtum compositum,” an “unordered collection of old pomp and modern comfort.”26 Paulsson’s attention to these details may demonstrate no more than professional expertise, but it could also be that Asplund’s courthouse extension had alerted him to the possibilities of a modern symbolic reading revealed in movement through a building’s interior and that he was now sensitive to its absence.

Figure 130 Gunnar Leche, one-point-​ perspective rendering of the Uppsala Courthouse entry hall with the floor above cut away, and Gregor Paulsson, sketch of the entry hall as it would actually appear to a visitor. From Upsala nya tidning, 14 June 1939.

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recollections of a foreign culture (an old complaint from the days of Den nya arkitekturen), was sufficient indication of the importance of such a building. Was it, indeed, appropriate for a modern courthouse to take as its source aristocratic palaces in Stockholm? (In answer, Leche modified his design modestly, by changing the columns to pilaster piers to give the building a slightly less portentous appearance.)

The Spartan St yle As the 1930s came to an end, Swedish architectural taste in public buildings turned toward the spartan, for which Asplund’s building was, to some extent, premonitory: low brick town halls and courthouses with rectangular windows and occasional relief provided by balcony projections. Opposition to modernism softened, though there was also continued uncertainty about the relation of new and old. Municipal modernism took the form of stripped efficiency without obvious symbolic

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overtones, as can be seen in the results of a competition for an addition to the Malmö Courthouse (1938) and the combined town hall and hotel in Karlskoga (1937–40). As elsewhere, the site at Malmö was central to the city’s image, and important older buildings (the courthouse itself, the church of St. Peter) needed to be protected. The jury specified that the current appearance of the city (stadsbild) needed to be preserved.27 In a commentary on the program in Byggmästaren, the architect Mats Linnman reminded readers of the defects of earlier competitions (notably, he thought, Halmstad) where the preservation of preexisting buildings had placed an extraordinary onus on the incoming architecture. It might have been better, he thought, to build the new building elsewhere and maintain the old building as a museum piece rather than try to combine public meeting spaces with offices.28 All the winning entries evoked modern efficiency and left representational duties to Helgo Zettervall’s much-admired neo-​Renaissance courthouse (1863), facing the main square. For example, Carl Axel Stoltz’s four-​story square doughnut with a modest corner entrance was all business. As the jury commented, “The architectural form is compact. Building costs are relatively low.” Gunnar Weijke and Kjell Ödeen’s entry, the second-​prize winner, echoed Sigurd Lewerentz’s Social Insurance Building in Stockholm (1930–32) but was softened by sculpture and landscaping along one side (fig. 131). As the jury reported, “The façades have a calm but personal design and open themselves well to their surroundings.” “Building costs,” however, they warned, “are fairly high.”29 Finding a balance between the virtues of efficiency and the failings of the simplistic (“the façades are severe”) meant walking a line between the plain and the overly simple.

A building like the city hall and hotel at Karlskoga by the architect Sune Lindström (1906–1989) combined administrative and festive functions. Karlskoga was an industrial town, like Ludvika, and received its town charter in 1939: the new town hall was its first. The main body of the building is in red brick and forms a relatively plain box; a portico and balcony mark the entry on the façade facing the square. On the flank the word “stadshotellet” in capital letters to the right over a door marks the hotel and restaurant. In the account of the building process published for the inauguration, the (unidentified) author notes that Lindström had offered numerous alternatives: wings set forward or back, a V-​shaped pair of buildings connected by an underground tunnel, skyscrapers, and even a “Tyrolean-​restaurant” proposal had apparently emerged from “architect Lindström’s lush fantasy.” In the end, the major debates seem to have been about the brick P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 131 Gunnar Weijke and Kjell Ödeen, Malmö Courthouse, proposal, 1938. This design was typical of the spartan, “Social Democratic” style of the prewar years. Stadsfullmäktige i Malmö / Malmö City Archive.

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Figure 132 Sune Lindström, Karlskoga Town Hall and Hotel. The only remnant of Lindström’s fantasy is the wavy canopy over the entrance to the hotel on the flank. Arne Wahlberg, ARKM 1962-101-0348.

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color (yellow or red), and Lindström himself was clear about his own preference lest anyone question the seriousness of the result (or the obviously playful architect): “The city hall is a monumental building. . . . [It] seeks to represent Karlskoga, and not with great size and the effects of mass” (fig. 132).30 More buildings in

this relatively stripped and economical style followed: at Borlänge the architect John Åkerlund connected a church and a courthouse in one building (1936–39), and at Skellefteå (1935–1940, completed 1955) Tengboms arkitektkontor built a similarly simplified city hall and hotel. Skellefteå has extensive interior decoration like that at Halmstad. In 1948 Byggmästaren reported on seven recent competitions for city halls (Linköping, Hässleholm, Östersund, Tranås, Sandviken, Nynäshamn, Kristinehamn), all with entries reflecting the new spartan aesthetic, all but one won by this now conventional modern building style.31 In his commentary, the architect Leif Reinius (1907–1995) recalled the historical importance of public buildings at the center of cities and towns, from the squares of Belgium and Italy to the early twentieth-​century buildings in Sweden.32 (The cover of this issue of Byggmästaren had a full-​page picture of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence.) He alluded to the symbolic character of the traditional city hall and the virtues of the lively quality of civic life. These were not qualities he found in current buildings. In analyzing the plans, he noted, “A large abstract geometrical form frequently occurs to which the plan must defer. Prison. In some gratifying cases there is certainly a charming simple and spontaneous (but neutral) architecture.” And he lamented the marginalization of art: “At most, a little postage stamp over the door—​that is the ‘art.’ ” Reinius rejected the old grandiloquent monumentality, but he understood the times, and understood the need for urban spaces to develop their own life over time. His hope, expressed in the last line, was for “a true and healthy spirited community of brave individuals who understand the words ‘democracy’ and ‘love.’ Our time will surely have a town hall to enjoy.”33 For Reinius,

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at least, after the imaginative variety (and occasional uncertainty) of architectural solutions in the 1930s, the time had not come.34 Identit y and Monumentalit y Running through the entire debate around public architecture in the 1930s were two interlocking issues: the problem of architectural identity in the context of geography (local, regional, or national) and the problem of monumentality. Both were issues rooted in the nineteenth century, in the formation of the nation-​state and in definitions of civilization. Both had been exacerbated by modernism. Irresolvable disputes over identity, often centering around a hunt for precedents that both sides could muster but that convinced neither of the rightness or wrongness of its argument, had proved fruitless. Was any modern-​leaning German architect actually won over by the argument that the flat roof was not properly German?35 In Sweden, the argument that modern architecture was not truly Swedish was one against which modernists fought. The authors of acceptera (1931) rejected the idea that modern architecture required abandonment of national tradition: “Modern architecture is based to a much greater extent than the older styles on formal freedom, and has greater possibilities for variations, perhaps also for national expression.” This section of acceptera concludes with a challenging quotation from the Norwegian painter Christian Krogh that redefines national art: “All national art is bad, all good art is national.”36 This position might win the day within advanced artistic circles, but for those who had not breathed the rarified air of the modern architectural debate, it only went so far: architecture also had to be measured against political standards. Someone like Charles Reilly might claim (1932) that under the

impact of “an architecture which claims that efficiency in a building means perfect beauty, it is clear that national expression in architecture will tend very quickly to disappear,” but that did not meet the arguments of xenophobic racists like his old friend Reginald Blomfield.37 What then were good, patriotic, nationalist-​ modernists supposed to do? In France, the growth of the regionalist movement, whose most famous adherent was Le Corbusier, was one indication of need.38 In England the group identified as “romantic moderns” by the cultural historian Alexandra Harris explored parish churches, country towns, and “olde worlde” tea rooms.39 In this context a meeting of the Réunion internationale d’architecture in 1935, organized by the French magazine L’architecture d’aujourd’hui in Prague and Vienna (and continuing on to Rome), discussed the question of “national character” in architecture.40 The meeting came to no single conclusion, naturally, but a range of opinions emerged. Some held to the view that modern architecture was a continuing threat to national identity, notably the Spaniard Francisco Mora Berenguer; others were untroubled by the new forms of internationalism represented by modern design, notably Julius Posener and Joseph Vago. Posener, indeed, pointed to the complexities inherent in the idea of a national architecture in Europe, where Sardinia had disappeared into Italy, Corsica into France, and Prussia into a number of different states. Posener’s conclusion was that in the creation of a work of architecture the task was not to create it in a modern or national style but rather to address the problems of climate and customs. He looked forward to a European union within which diverse national styles might flower. Until its establishment, nationalism in its P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 133 André Lurçat, Villejuif School, and Le Corbusier, Pavillon Suisse, Paris, as presented in Max Raphael’s article in Byggmästaren, no. 8 (1935): p. 48. Courtesy Arkitektur förlag, Stockholm.

traditional form was bound to fail.41 Yet so too was a modernism unrelated to some aspect of cultural identity—​especially when it came to public architecture. Porfirio Pardal ​Monteiro (1897–1957), a Portuguese modernist, argued that in fact there were significant differences among national modernisms: “The new style is born. Its principal characteristics, as with all styles, are inevitably international, but we can already note that in each country a method is beginning to be defined.”42 The identification of a national inflection of modernism was also on the mind of Swedish architects.

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In the same year, Byggmästaren published an article entitled “Är den moderna arkitekturen internationell?” (Is modern architecture international?), by Max Raphael (1889–1952), a German art historian then living in Paris.43 How the text found its way to Sweden is not revealed in the magazine, but it was translated from the “author’s German manuscript” by Sven Ivar Lind (who worked in Asplund’s office and took over his commissions in 1940). At one level Raphael offered a detailed formal and structural analysis of André Lurçat’s school at Villejuif and Le Corbusier’s Pavillon Suisse, Paris (fig. 133). Yet the text also attempted to show a causal connection between the aesthetic form of each building and the national conditions that gave rise to that form, in each of its parts. Raphael’s background (studies with Georg Simmel, Henri Bergson, Emile Mâle, and Heinrich Wölfflin) gave him an original perspective on these issues. Rooting his political argument in form and his formal argument in social factors, he settled the question posed in the title as follows: modern architecture, indeed all architecture, is inevitably national because it responds to conditions on the ground, but it can also be more than national. Such an argument reinforced the position of modernists, like Asplund. Raphael’s argument broke the pattern of hunting for ancient sources to justify modernist experimentation and suggested that national characteristics could also be absorbed into the modernist vocabulary. In the struggle between nationalism and modernity, place and time, and memory and prophecy, the advantage was now with the modernizers, and this new situation provoked a deeper questioning of how tradition, place, and memory—​how monumentality,

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in short—​might be incorporated into modern design.44 A key figure in the dissection of this problem, and someone whose views found their way into debates in Sweden, was Peter Meyer (1894–1984), the editor of the Swiss magazine Das Werk. Meyer had studied architecture in Munich and had been strongly influenced by Theodor Fischer. After travels in Greece and France he settled in Zurich, becoming editor of Das Werk (1930–42).45 In 1928 he published a small book on tradition and modern architecture in which he attacked both dogmatic modernists and academic historicists. In 1938 he published a review of the Musée d’art moderne (A. Aubert, D. Dastugue, J-​C. Dondel, and P. Viard), part of the international exposition in Paris of 1937 (fig. 134). He praised the building for its use of modern construction techniques and its reference to human proportions; it represented a successful use of classical forms to make modern monumentality, and he contrasted it with Le Corbusier’s entry for the same competition. Le Corbusier, he thought, had imposed human proportions on technology, and as a result neither human proportion nor the technology was natural.46 Meyer was answered by Hans Schmidt (1893–1972), an architect who had developed in the circle of Mart Stam and Dutch modernism before working in the new Soviet architectural brigades.47 Schmidt took the editor to task for praising the museum at the expense of Le Corbusier. Le Corbusier’s achievement, he wrote, was to have made the intention more important than technological innovation and to have balanced intention and functional effect. Meyer replied instantly with a lengthy essay entitled “Ueberlegungen zum Problem der Monumentalität” (Considerations on the problem of

monumentality). There he addressed what he saw as the critical weakness of Le Corbusier’s argument: bridges and silos cannot attain monumentality no matter how large they become. Meyer thus reserved the concept of monumentality for public buildings and defended its connection to classicism. Just because the hapless architects of National Socialism, Communism, and Fascism had appropriated classicism for their poverty-​stricken architecture did not mean this ancient system was bankrupt—​quite the contrary. To the question whether monumentality required classicism, Meyer answered in the affirmative.48 At this point the debate moved to Sweden and was taken up by Gunnar Sundbärg.49 He worked at the Stockholm Exhibition and came to Gothenburg as Åhrén’s assistant. Later he became head of planning in the west-​coast town of Helsingborg. It was Sundbärg who, in 1944, published the first historical account of Asplund’s courthouse extension.50 In 1939, however, in an article in Byggmästaren, Sundbärg

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Figure 134 A. Aubert, D. Dastugue, J-C. Dondel, and P. Viard, Musée d’art moderne, Paris, 1937. SAP, 12 rue Henner, Paris.

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took on Meyer.51 Ancient and modern civilizations had little in common, he argued. It was not just that industrial society had advanced light-​years but that the ancient Greek world had been based on slavery, whereas modern Swedes lived under democracy. The classical orders had been no more than an oppressive means for ensuring state power. An appropriate modern monumentality could indeed be found, and he too singled out Lurçat’s school at Villejuif (1933) and Le Corbusier’s Pavillon Suisse (1933). Great stadia and bridges were not just large in scale but represented an idealization of modern values. Rather than focus on scale, materials, or particular building types, Sundbärg attempted a description of modern monumentality that reflected the times, echoing both Le Corbusier and Lurçat. For Sundbärg there were many ways to dissolve the bad effects of monumentality: “One attempts to dissolve all the larger volumes; one loves a graceful, pretty and dainty, witty playfulness in the grouping of rooms and volumes. One has a positive aversion to whole, synthetic form. One fears symmetry not only when it works against but when it is the immediate expression of the manifestations of life that architecture should frame.” For him the ultimate goal was the obliteration of the distinction between monumental and nonmonumental building, an echo of Le Corbusier’s argument in Une maison—​ un palais. Colonnades, whatever essential value classicism might have, are not the future, he concluded; “it is Le Corbusier’s intuition that points the way forward when he says that every house can become a palace.”52 In this context, Asplund’s courthouse extension represents a revolutionary step: it is the house as palace, the palace as house. The “everyday light” of the interior is matched by what seems at first to be an “everyday exterior.” 188

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It seems almost to actualize a comment attributed to the French president Jules Grévy, who, when told that the previous year’s work at the Academy of Fine Arts had produced “nothing extraordinary, but on the average, good,” is reported to have replied: “A good average. That is precisely what a democracy needs.”53 To a degree Asplund was working under that assumption too, though he did everything he could to combine modesty with design complexity. Later, under the impact of wartime and postwar frugality and ideas of efficiency, as Reinius lamented, even simple glass and steel or reinforced concrete stepped back further from any sense of grandeur, even from the complexity of art that Asplund had deployed. In West Germany, where these issues were felt most deeply, Bonn, the new capital, styled itself “Sparta on the river Rhine,” and when the architect of the new Bundestag there was asked for “more representative” features for his building, he replied, “Maybe in the future when politics has proved itself we will build in a more representative way.”54 As is typical of this entire “shifty” subject, however, contradictions abound. Though one might create a spectrum with functionalist architecture at one end and traditionalist architecture at the other, no direct line connects the political orientation of the architect or client with the selection of an architectural style. Directly mapping form against the political spectrum just produces more dissonance. Architecture may even seem like a distraction from the underlying modern condition (shared and accepted by architectural modernists and traditionalists), and “style” a shadow sport of appearances in which architects, clients, newspapers and journals, and the public play different roles in different places and at different times.55

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In Great Britain change came more slowly, and respect for national tradition remained strong and modernism was alluded to by references to foreign architecture. In 1936 Charles Reilly thought the best of the modern town halls was Percy Thomas’s guildhall for Swansea (1930–34), a building that combined a law court with council chambers and municipal offices (fig. 135): “This building externally, and in spite of its unnecessary tower, is the nearest yet that we have got to a modern town hall in this country,” Reilly wrote.56 Its sources were decidedly British, mixing elements of eighteenth-​century architecture (Soane, Dance) into a somewhat streamlined Art Deco. (The presence of a decorative scheme by the Welsh artist Frank Brangwyn, originally intended for the House of Lords, increased its local appeal.) Swansea set the pattern for a number of smaller civic buildings.57 A. J. Thomas’s Camden Town Hall (1934–37) was, perhaps, more Palladian in character. C. Cowles-​Voysey’s town hall in Worthing, Sussex (1931–33), was built in what was called the “somewhat tame and academic neo-​Georgian” style.58 Albert J. Toomer’s police station and courthouse at Weston-super-​Mare (1933–35) reduced the façade to basic classical geometry—​back to Dance and Soane again. Slightly later, Cecil G. Stillman’s courthouse in Chichester (1940–42) transformed deep arches into trabeated windows and used coffering sparingly—​even abstractly—​on the inside to echo the same neoclassical sources.59 Just before World War II some British architects turned for inspiration to Holland and Sweden, both of which provided a way to express a pragmatic novelty, a modernized and internationalist mercantile moderation shared by North Sea nations.60 Both Reginald Uren’s Hornsey Town Hall (1933–35, fig. 136) and Culpin & Son’s Greenwich Town Hall

(1935–39, fig. 137) drew heavily on Dudok’s Hilversum Town Hall. In Uren’s tower one can also see echoes of Östberg’s Stockholm Town Hall.61 “It was our wish,” said H. W. H. Icough, a councilor and mayor at the inauguration in Greenwich, “to break from the established design and to create a building offering within all the appurtenances which modern research could provide, and with exterior lines marking the architectural leanings of this age.”62 Reviewers of the Hornsey Town Hall observed circumspectly, “It clashes with the preconceived notions of what a town hall should look like.”63 E. Berry Webber’s Hammersmith Town Hall (1938–39) echoed Swansea with brick as the predominant material, but the details were Swedish, recalling the classicizing playfulness of Asplund, Tengbom, and Östberg in the 1920s—​what critics called the “Swedish-​Georgian” style.64 In Robert Atkinson (1883–1952), Charles Holloway James (1893–1953), and Stephen Rowland Pierce’s (1896–1966) Norwich City Hall (1935–38), Östberg’s town hall in Stockholm stood out as the singular source; foreign equaled modern and fresh. Norwich was extremely popular with the P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 135 Percy Thomas, Swansea Guildhall, 1930–34, elevation. West Glamorgan Archive Service.

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Figure 136 Reginald Uren, Hornsey Town Hall, 1933–35. Facing an open square and recessed from the main street, the complex of municipal offices is a remarkably humane environment. Hornsey Historical Society Archive, London. Figure 137 Culpin & Son, Greenwich Town Hall, 1935–39. Though it no longer serves municipal functions, the building was one of the most impressive interwar town halls in Britain. Greenwich Heritage Center.

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Figure 138 Robert Atkinson, Charles Holloway James, and Stephen Rowland Pierce, Norwich City Hall, 1935–38. Chosen in a competition as part of the renovation of the city center (1931), the largest Art Deco city hall at the time attracted national attention. Valentine’s postcard.

general public (there were a hundred casualties on opening day, so thick was the crowd) and so convincing to the editors of Architectural Review that they devoted an entire issue of the magazine to the building (fig. 138):65 “Every now and then the completion of a new building arouses exceptional interest in the architectural world. This interest is of the kind that Fleet Street labels ‘news value.’ . . . When this happens, perhaps once in a couple of years, architecture becomes news, and an architectural event . . . becomes a public event.” The magazine then enumerated the reasons for this popularity. Some were conventional—​a city hall is “an expression of civic pride”—​but others spoke to the character of the times. It was, the editors claimed, “the direct architectural expression of an age which is increasingly organized as a bureaucracy.” However, as the editors pointed out, Norwich City Hall was a

“long-​term building,” in effect “the antithesis of the class of buildings that exploit the modern and more impersonal idiom of a mechanistic age.” Using Östberg as a source also meant that the building could be seen as a modernized statement in favor of tradition and thus a bastion against functionalism—​a worse form of modernism. “[I]t was a wonder,” however, that “Östberg didn’t sue the British architects for copyright infringement!”66 Effectively, British public architecture expressed its modernity through the adaptation of foreign architecture built a dozen or more years previously. Holding on to Britishness meant steering clear of any form of modernity that suggested functionalism. At the Southampton Civic Centre (built in sections between 1930 and 1939, fig. 139), E. Berry Webber seems to have taken a northern grand tour (from Helsinki to Glasgow) to assemble its parts, an eclecticism P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 139 E. Berry Webber, Southampton Guildhall and Civic Centre, 1930–39. The complex’s monumentality was a sign of the city’s growing importance and the international status of its port.

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perhaps justified by the site: “the gateway to the Empire.” But something about the building seems to have troubled even the editors of the local newspaper. After a fawning description of the notable participants in the opening ceremonies in 1932, a short account of the “voices in the crowd” contained chatter and gossip rather than any impression of the building: “Third woman: ‘you get in front Gwen, and mind you don’t let go of Jack’s hand.’ ” In the same article the journalist also picked out members of the public even less engaged in events: “A group of unemployed men in threadbare suits talked earnestly together, their backs to the crowd. The words ‘wages’ were wafted

on the breeze.”67 This kind of monumentality was soon overcome by political events. As the architectural historian Anthony Jackson has pointed out, the Southampton Civic Centre differed little from Ernst Sagebiel’s Air Ministry (1935–36) on Wilhemstraße in Berlin “except that one was democratically chosen and the other dictatorially imposed.”68 Here then was a troubled borderline, an architectural divide cast as tradition versus modernity, with political overtones, as the decade began and recast almost exclusively in political terms as the decade concluded and war erupted.69 In France too historical styles related to French architectural traditions persisted.

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Building projects suspended during World War I were only completed in the 1920s (as was the hôtel de ville of Paul and Albert Leseine at Colombes, begun 1913 and inaugurated at the end of 1923). The replacement of city halls damaged in the war led to the construction of a number of relatively traditional buildings that tended to echo local styles, possibly recalling prewar tranquility. In Lille—​actually destroyed in a fire—​the architect Émile Dubuisson built the hôtel de ville in what is described a “neo-​ Flemish” style (1924–32). A new mayor who took charge of the project in 1925 directed the addition of a bell tower, the tallest in the region, affirming the traditional iconography of the town hall (fig. 140).70 The interior was more modern. Not wholly dissimilar was the hôtel de ville in Dunkirk (1934–36), by Doisy and Galland. There were also Art Deco town halls, like the concrete-​framed hôtel de ville at Le Portel (Nord Pas-de-​Calais), which transformed the traditional iconography of the town hall with decorative ironwork and colorful surface decorations (architect, Marcel Bonhomme, 1936). Modest and modernized French classical designs also appeared in this period, as in the hôtels de ville at Berry-au-​Bac (Picardy), completed in 1926 by the architects Vuibert and Schillio, and Aulnoye-​Aymeries (1927), by Albert Rouzé and Joseph Ségers. Sometimes the overlapping stylistic trends created unusual conjunctions, as at Montdidier (Picardy), in the building by Charles Duval and Emmanuel Gonse (1928). Built of brick, with florid stepped gables and giant-​order pilasters (and a bell tower), the building combines regional brick styles with Art Deco designs. Foreign styles also appear in France for many of the same reasons as they appear in Britain. The creation of the new commune of Cachan led to the construction of a new hôtel de ville by

Figure 140 Émile Dubuisson, Lille Hôtel de Ville, 1924–32. Following a fire in the old town hall, a new site, outside of town, was chosen. Despite the building’s rather traditional appearance, the bell tower was built of reinforced concrete, and the main hall, where the concrete is exposed, is luminous and open. Éditions La Cicogne, Reims.

the architects Mathon, Chollet, and Chaussat (1933–35) in the manner of Dudok’s Hilversum (fig. 141). Even the use of yellow bricks over a concrete frame recalls the Dutch model, as do the tall streamlined bell tower and the plantings and fountains in the interior courtyard. Ironically, though approved abroad, Dudok faced questions of national identity at Hilversum. When the municipal council finally agreed to support the project, the opposition attacked the planned town hall for being the kind of building that would attract attention and would therefore be un-​Dutch and inappropriate. “Hilversum,” so one councilor said, “did not need a ‘resounding town hall’ like Amsterdam or Sweden had.” Or as Dudok himself P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 141 Jean-​Baptiste Mathon, Joannès Chollet, and René Chaussat, Cachan Hôtel de Ville, 1933–35. The influence of Dudok is even seen in the effort of the photographer to capture the streamlined character of the building. From Jean Favier, “Le nouvel hôtel de ville de Cachan,” Construction moderne 51 (1936): 483.

observed in true Calvinist spirit: “We Dutch are not an ostentation-loving race that has much time for beauty such as the Swedes or the Danes.”71 Who Decides? In the end, there is no single place we can identify as the reason modern public architecture developed so slowly. In each country authority was weighted differently. The situation in Sweden was quite unlike that in the rest of western Europe. In the debate around public architecture the players were few: local officials, architects, a newspaper or two, a single professional magazine. It was a small circle. 194

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In Kungsbacka and Gothenburg, at least, the architects themselves seem to have had a significant role in turning their town’s new buildings in a modern direction. The shift in the axial organization of the windows at Gothenburg can only have been Asplund’s idea, and Friberger was almost certainly the person who brought the possibility of modernism to tiny Kungsbacka. But were architects really the leaders of architectural change in this highly fluid period? In Sweden, town or city architects could carry significant weight in their communities—​though, generally speaking, the larger the community and the more important the commission, the less the weight.

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Though they merit deeper investigation, the status of architects like Sigurd Westholm in Stockholm (1916–40) and Karl Samuelson in Gothenburg (1921–44) does not seem comparable to that of dominant figures such as Gunnar Leche in Uppsala (1920–54) and Arvid Fuhre in Helsingborg (1929–50). A well-​known architect with a private practice in Stockholm, like Cyrillus Johansson, might serve as town architect in a number of smaller locations as the occasion demanded: his distinction could make up for his light reading of the local political situation. Over time, Johansson served as town architect in Södertälje, Ludvika, Linköping, and Vaxholm. Even so, town architects had no executive power and were dependent on boards and committees elected or designated by council members. Driving the construction of a public building was usually the administrative task of an individual, a mayor, or a leading councilman. Rarely were these figures known beyond municipal circles; often they were patrons only once; their names are frequently not even publicly linked to the building for which they were responsible. Those whose identities are known include a chief judge (Bernhard Lindberg, Gothenburg), a head of the city council and circuit judge (Erik Björkman, Ludvika), and a mayor (Ragnar Bendt, Mjölby). About their architectural tastes little is known. Ragnar Bendt, the mayor of Mjölby, took the unusual step of traveling to Stockholm to visit Asplund in May 1937 to obtain the architect’s opinion about a new town hall. But how did he know that Asplund was a person to see? Asplund set the problem of the town hall for one of his classes, and they produced designs that were then published in the regional newspaper.72 Although tours by public officials to other towns and cities were common enough, I know of no other example

in which an official picked out an architect to consult in this way. Rarely, too, in Sweden does some political figure stand out for whom the building of a new town hall or courthouse is part of a larger political vision.73 In part, this scarcity follows from the diminished political status of the chairman of the town council, whose powers, following the municipal reforms of 1863 in Sweden, were circumscribed by the need for collective action within the council. Councils elected their chairs annually, and councilors served fixed four-​year terms, thus discouraging long-​term bold initiatives.74 Denmark’s governmental system was similar to that in Sweden. In Britain, however, the mayor (or lord mayor) could be any citizen of the town, whether a town councilor not, and might therefore bring in fresh ideas, but even so, his term required annual renewal, and councilors served staggered three-​year terms.75 Few mayors stepped into the national political scene without first giving up their municipal roles; in this period the Labor mayor of London, Herbert Morrison, whose major architectural interests were in housing and the establishment of a green belt around London, was a significant exception. These administrative practices help to explain why change in municipal architecture moved at a crab’s pace across Europe. In Gothenburg, administrative regulations prevented the town’s architect and the building committee from intervening even had they wanted to do so. In France, by contrast, the election of a mayor by the town council gave executive powers to someone who might be the political leader of the municipality but who might, equally well, not have been on the council before assuming the post. Generally carrying a six-​year term, the position attracted “some of the ablest men in French political life,” men P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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who concurrently served as members of Parliament or even as cabinet ministers.76 This system enabled some French communes to produce strikingly original public architecture. One of the most important mayors in this period, noted particularly for the architectural work he sponsored, was André Morizet, mayor of the Paris suburb of Boulogne-​Billancourt (elected for the first time in 1919) and later senator (1927–42).77 Morizet took special interest in the improvement of cities, belonged to the Commission des Beaux-​Arts, and was involved in the preservation of Parisian historic monuments.78 In 1932 he published a book on the planner Georges-​Eugène Haussmann, whom he much admired, and helped lead the movement that created the law of 15 May 1932 that established Paris as an administrative region.79 His broader political interest was in the professionalization of municipal services with the development of what he called a science communale. Morizet maintained that French mayoral terms should last a dozen years and be renewable: “Municipal functions have ceased to be what they were above all: ceremonial duties you could confide in full wisdom to any sort of brilliant character. They tend increasingly to be professional in nature. . . . We may not be far removed from the day when French mayors will be . . . career civil servants, appointed by the council, elected to exercise the profession in the city for which their training has prepared them.”80 Morizet, along with others, proposed special schools for mayors and, together with his fellow socialists, created the Union des municipalités socialistes (Union of Socialist Municipalities) in 1920. Here was modernization starting at the administrative roots with the city as laboratory.81 Morizet’s major architectural achievement was the construction of the new town 196

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center for Boulogne-​Billancourt. In addition to a post office (1936–38) designed by Charles Giroud and a health center (1937–40) designed by Roger Hummel, he directed the architect Tony Garnier, with Jacques Debat-​Ponsan, to build a new town hall (1931–34).82 Boulogne-​ Billancourt had expanded massively through the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (population 1,500 in the mid–nineteenth century, ca. 100,000 in 1937), and the town hall constructed in 1880, with subsidiary structures added in the early years of the twentieth century, had become “disgraceful and uncomfortable.”83 Morizet’s research into his project to realize a modern municipal home, however, had yielded simplicity and easy functionality. As in Asplund’s courthouse extension, legibility was of critical importance. Boulogne-​Billancourt was one of a group of socialist-​run municipalities in the Paris region that, along with a group of Communist-​ dominated municipalities, formed what is sometimes called the Red Belt of Paris.84 Others in this group, both in the Paris region and elsewhere, built new town halls in the same period. At Puteaux (1930–34) the mayor, Georges Barthélemy (1897–1944), also a deputy for Pas-de-​Calais, held an architectural competition in 1930, which was won by the architectural firm of Jean and Édouard Niermans; at Montrouge the socialist mayor Émile Cresp (1877–1950) oversaw construction by the architect Henri Decaux of a new town hall (1934–35) as part of redevelopment in the center of the town; in Cachan, only recently sliced from Arcueil, the architects Chollet, Mathon, and Chaussat built the Dudok-​inspired hôtel de ville; in the 14th arrondissement of Paris the architect George Sébille built a new annex to the mairie (1935); and in Poissy a massive new hôtel de ville by

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Figure 142 Jean and Édouard Niermans, Puteaux Hôtel de Ville, 1930–34. Today the building stands in the shadows of La Défense, but at one time its position at the head of a grand place made it the public center of its zone. Éditions d’art J. Poly, 19 rue de Chante-​Coq, Puteaux.

the architect Henri Calsat was inaugurated in December 1937. Typically these buildings dispensed with the traditional iconography of the town hall, classical references were restrained or modernized, and public spaces were wide, open, and well lit. At Puteaux, for example, the hôtel de ville lacked a tower, and the façade facing the place du Marché was embellished with updated Tuscan-​style polygonal columns to increase the light in the festive hall inside (fig. 142). In addition to the main communal offices, the building also contained a justice of the peace, a post office, a fire station, and an ambulance post. As at Boulogne-​Billancourt, the architects placed the main services around a central hall “so that the resident [would] not have to waste time uselessly.”85 As if to reflect Garnier’s idea of the town hall as a factory,

garage facilities below ground level provided space for the communal fleet. With a program so complex, the functionalist clarity achieved by Garnier was beyond reach of the Niermans. To represent modern efficiency, the urban façade facing the rue de la République is largely stripped of ornament, but over the central door is an allegorical frieze that shows the town of Puteaux as a woman advancing labor, letters, science, and art.86 Reviews of the building were mixed. Pierre Vago in L’architecture d’aujourd’hui thought the building too conservative, too closely aligned with the taste of the École des Beaux-​Arts: “We must admit that our preferences are for those who, in the exuberance of their youth, prefer to follow new paths, face dangers and risks boldly. But it is quite understandable that in the presence P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 143 Pierre Mathé and Henri Calsat, Poissy Hôtel de Ville, 1935–37. Part of a renovation campaign that included a school, the town hall itself included a theater. Unusually for a French town hall, the mayor, René Tainon, brought in artists (Osip Zadkine, Théodore Brenson, Jean-​Robert Pinet) to provide extensive decorations for the building. Éditions d’art Guy, Lyna-​Paris Nozais Abeille-​cartes, Paris.

of a subject as vast as the building of a town hall, one feels a certain hesitation and prefers to walk on safer paths instead of leaping into the unknown.”87 Vago admitted that an “abyss” separated his taste from that of the Niermans, though he admitted, nonetheless, the quality of the results. At Poissy, the socialist mayor René Tainon (1901–1979) took charge of the construction of a new hôtel de ville (1935–37, fig. 143). The architects, Pierre Mathé and Henri Calsat, looked closely at Garnier’s town hall for Boulogne-​Billancourt, which provided the model for massing and details. On the inside the architects built an enormous theater (1,400 seats), and the mayor organized sculpture (Ossip Zadkine) and frescoes (Théodore Brenson) for the public spaces, as well as paintings (Jean-​Robert Pinet) for the marriage chamber. The finished building was debated in 198

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the press, called “La Folie Tainon” in Le journal de Poissy, and this newspaper accused the town council of megalomania: “[They are] similar to those who, winning the lottery, have nothing more to manage and lose their heads when they have the opportunity to juggle with millions.”88 The issue of architectural style did not make its way onto the public agenda. Outside the Paris region, at Villeurbanne, near Lyon, construction was directed by Lazare Goujon (1869–1960), a doctor first elected mayor in 1924–25 and subsequently in 1929 until 1935. A socialist like Morizet—​and equally ambitious—​he also served in the Chamber of Deputies. A shrewd manager of the media and a clever organizer of men, he pulled together a team of architects—​Jean Fleury, Morice Leroux, Robert Giroud—​to help with the planning of the new skyscraper city. The aim was to create a healthful environment for working

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Figure 144 Robert Giroud, Villeurbanne Hôtel de Ville, 1930–34. The heart of the skyscraper city was the town hall. The main tower, effectively a bell tower, gave it a relatively traditional iconography. Imp. B. Arnaud, Lyon-​Paris.

people: skyscrapers with steam heat and built with modern construction techniques.89 Giroud, a winner of the Prix de Rome, built the town hall (1930–34, fig. 144). He had worked for Tony Garnier in Lyon and absorbed a grand sense of scale and a love of (modernized) classical form from him. Orderless marble columns in the main hall are somewhat moderated by curving metal handrails around the staircase. The effect recalls American Art Deco ornament, but the scale is overwhelming. In short, in the hands of a strong leader new ideas could be introduced in France. The mayors and their architects drew on functionalist practice to produce buildings that with their modern materials or the simplicity of their ornamentation became model modern public buildings. Transforming ceremonial functions into bureaucratic rituals for the citizen meeting government was no small achievement.

The ideas of these city rulers were not always architecturally advanced in terms of the debate within the architectural community, but the leaders themselves were politically astute, even visionary, in their approach to city government. How different the political systems elsewhere! In the absence of a strong municipal leader, an individual architect might rise to the occasion to effect change, as occurred sometimes in Sweden. In countries with a larger population and richer discourse on architecture, the professional community could intervene, as in Great Britain. According to Charles Reilly, the competition system had rewarded conventional historicist architects like E. Vincent Harris (1876–1971), who could control the market for public architecture. Harris had come to prominence just after the turn of the century with a form of historicism that proved astonishingly durable. A comparison of P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Figure 145 E. Vincent Harris, Glamorgan County Hall, Cardiff, 1909–11. Harris’s skill with the Edwardian ideal made him one of the most popular architects for public buildings.

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the Glamorgan County Hall, Cardiff (1909–11, fig. 145), and his Sheffield City Hall (1920–32, fig. 146), designed a decade later, and the Leeds Civic Hall (1926–32) suggests little significant change of approach over this period. As Reilly wrote in 1936, it was expected that Harris, on receiving a commission, would “fall into line,” carrying on the traditions of the previous century.90 Harris was not the only one to do so, and this was one reason that Reilly, among others, had identified a “town hall problem.” Even when Harris was not the architect, the results were rarely different. Barnsley Town Hall (Thornley and Briggs, 1932–33), Camden Town Hall (A. J. Thomas, 1934–37), and the town hall in Worthing, Sussex (C. Cowles-​Voysey, 1931–33) all hewed to a traditional line. In his autobiography, J. M. Richards, later editor of the Architectural Review, wrote that Harris and others “had . . . brought to a fine art not only the process of designing town-​halls but the process of preparing competition schemes so as to appeal to the architects who judged

competitions and presumably to the civic authorities who promoted them.”91 To address this problem the Architects’ Journal, starting in February 1936, undertook a study of the town hall as a part of a series on public buildings, which was later published as book. The author, Arthur Calveley Cotton (presumably the journal’s editor, Hubert de Cronin Hastings), proposed to inspire small firms to enter competitions by supplying them with “information about the real functions and administration of a civic centre.” The goal was “to guide Town Hall planning away from the imitative towards the more thoughtfully and progressively original.”92 He predicted that new styles would arrive. “Architectural design,” he thought, was “turning slowly towards a definitely asymmetrical style (as opposed to a symmetrical style such as the Neo-​Classic).”93 More radically—​certainly in the British context—​ he suggested that skyscrapers might find a place in public architecture. Architecturally, the introduction of tall buildings into civic work would be particularly stimulating, since it would mean that the majority of accepted traditional compositions, “typical plans” and parts would have to be jettisoned. With this elastic treatment, it would be exceptionally difficult to introduce symmetry with any degree of success, since the municipal offices would be added to from time to time. It would be impossible, for instance, to balance the municipal offices with the assembly hall or use any such time-​honored devices. And, as the parts of the scheme would not be constant, it would be impossible to introduce any kind of dominating feature, such as a clock tower, unless it were used as an isolated unit.94

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Figure 146 E. Vincent Harris, Sheffield City Hall, 1919–32. Harris was selected as architect in 1920, after a competition, but construction did not start until 1928. Valentine’s postcard.

These were buildings, he underlined, that “should be planned as efficient modern office blocks and not as pieces of monumental architecture.”95 Britain had to wait until after 1945 for tall buildings and for a new generation of public buildings: none was built in Britain before World War II. In Sweden, however, Nils Malmborg and Sven Ahlbom’s town hall in the Social Democratic suburb of Sundbyberg (fig. 147), just north of Stockholm (inaugurated in 1932), is a unique Swedish example of a modest six-​ story municipal office building, but it, perhaps justifiably, received little notice and none in the architectural press.96 In Germany, as probably known by Hastings, a number of towns had built high-​rise structures for their works departments. Called technische Rathäuser (technical town halls), these buildings tended to be stripped of traditional symbolic

overtones. (Their novel functions allowed them to be partially exempt from the responsibilities of the government center.) In Munich, for example, the city architect Herman Leitenstorfer had built a twelve-​story structure for the electricity, gas, and water boards.97 Designed just after World War I, it was only completed in 1928 (fig. 148). The building consisted of brick over a reinforced-​concrete frame. Defending it from the charge of American influence seems to have been high on the architect’s mind: “The tower is not a matter of fashion, and it is crazy to say so: as if America or anything else was the goal of our building. The tower was based on the plan derived from the place where it stands, and from the building program, which appeared before skyscraper ideas in German cities.”98 In Munich, as in Kungsbacka, opinions shifted over time. In 1927, as plans were revealed, opinion was decidedly

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Figure 147 Nils Malmborg and Sven Ahlbom, Sundbyberg Town Hall, 1932. Facing the main street, the stunted tower barely stands out on the site. With permission of the Pressbyrån Museum, Stockholm.

critical (“boring, factory-​like, devoted to over-​ functionalism”), but by the time the tower block approached completion two years later, these views had disappeared, and it was now praised by former critics as “A Tower Block in the Munich Style!”99 The historian Leif Jerram documents this change and even the self-​conscious reflection on the change that led some residents to patronize the enthusiasm of Berliners for Bruno Paul’s Kathreiner-​ Hochhaus (1928–30), their first skyscraper. As reported in the Bayerische Staatszeitung, “Now the Münchener sees the joy of the Berliner at this tower, and says, ‘Ja, mei. Dös ha’m wir scho lang!’ [‘Yeah, yeah, yeah! We’ve had one of those for ages!’]”100 However tempting the tall building was as a symbol of progress for municipal authorities, it was not something that most could put into brick and concrete. Sune Lindström might have dreamed about it 202

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for Karlskoga, but the jury for the new courthouse in Malmö eliminated tall buildings from the pool (as potential rivals to the nearby tower of the church of St. Peter). The interwar image of the city (the stadsbild, the cityscape) could not support such violations.101 Asplund’s Contribution The courthouse in Gothenburg made three distinctive contributions. It offered a model for the trend toward reticence in public architecture. Softened by sculpture and lighting, the completed building would have stood forward even less. Its second contribution was to provide an architectural commentary that was formally and politically sophisticated in the context of that modesty. This was also a modern building that enfolded history into its form, doing so in ways that were troubling to some of the city’s citizens. Finally, the demonstration of

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Figure 148 Herman Leitenstorfer, Technisches Rathaus, Munich, 1915–28. The main façade, shown here, brings out the massive quality of the building, somewhat diminished when seen at an angle. Süddeutscher Kunstverlag, Munich.

a special psychological exchange between visitor and building was the third of Asplund’s significant achievements.102 Typically, claims for the role of psychology in architecture emphasize the effect of the building on the user. In reviewing the work of Dudok, the French critic P. Georges Valois especially praised the town hall at Hilversum for what he called “the psychological dimension of the work,” by which he meant its efficiency and clarity. The citizen arrives to pay his taxes and easily finds the office; the newlyweds take a different path and use the grand staircase.103 The emphasis, certainly when it came to city halls, was often on the pride a visitor might feel. “There is a thesis,” so the editors of Architects’ Journal wrote, “that the civic pride of the rate payer is roused if he uses the main entrance to a civic centre when he goes to pay his taxes.” They tested this assumption by asking people about

their “feelings on entering the great doors of a ceremonial lay-​out, and it appeared that this was so. What was more interesting, however, was the fact that seven out of ten people, without provocation, said that on entering any town hall they immediately got lost and had to wait for the arrival of a clerk to inquire their way. That piece of misfortune was not caused by entering by a ceremonial door, but by the door not advertising its purpose sufficiently.”104 Such, in the opinion of Charles-​Edouard Sée, was the special virtue of Garnier’s town hall at Boulogne-​Billancourt: “The public will find the object of their visit rapidly and occasionally will be pleased to linger there, attracted by its atmosphere of comfort.”105 Asplund too prized visibility. Visibility was, however, only part of what Asplund sought. Like Le Corbusier, Asplund developed the idea of relationship between visitor and building. P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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Though he does not refer to psychology directly, Le Corbusier’s fascination with visual perception (about which he and Amedée Ozenfant wrote an article) and with the concept of the promenade architecturale in the early 1920s shows that one of his aims was to develop a technique for experiencing the full poetry of space through movement, an aim rooted in psychology.106 For Le Corbusier, however, visual perception and psychological engagement were only intermediate steps on the route to architectural poetry. “We are animated by passion,” he wrote in Une maison—​un palais. Each has his own. Conjunction often difficult, ineluctable passion and undeniable reason. These two elements that constitute the chemistry of the work enter with their widely different proportions, and often their conjunction produces a strange, unexpected, impressive, suffocating product that wrenches approval, provokes applause, and unites men in admiration: it is the work of art made with these elements which everyone employs in their turn but which, in that happy conjunction, is a unique dose that troubles us, that waits on us, that provokes unanimity.107 Le Corbusier’s aim was not mere psychological enlightenment through the program, a limited personal goal, but spiritual revelation through art. Asplund’s focus, by contrast, was on the visitor and on the potential for psychological revelation. His close follower in this respect was Alvar Aalto. Coda Though the courthouse extension was presented in the professional magazine

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Byggmästaren and in Form, it had no immediate impact on Swedish architecture. The former included only a description by Asplund; the latter included Uno Åhrén’s somewhat sharp critique of the building. Would some Swedes have suspended their disrespect because they knew Asplund considered the building unfinished? Or had Torgny Segerstedt totally cut the legs out from under the building? Subsequent books on Swedish architecture in the 1940s and 1950s are not enthusiastic about the building.108 The influential Danish critic and designer Poul Henningsen in 1937 took up the general issue of combining old and new in a Byggmästaren article entitled “Vi är själva historia” (We are ourselves history), perhaps thinking of Asplund’s building. Using Danish examples, he pointed to the dangers of created falsified Renaissance or baroque buildings—​ at the train station in Helsinsør, the addition to the National Museum in Copenhagen, and elsewhere. Modern buildings, he argued, need to be built in the modern manner for modern use, even when they are near older buildings: “We have a duty to manifest our history. We are in deep accord with good art and a great tradition when we are completely modern and directly next to the old.”109 The first inkling in Sweden that Asplund’s building constituted the beginning of a new approach to urban architecture is found in the writings of the architectural historian Elias Cornell. In 1950 he defined Asplund’s building as “one of the first efforts to deal with a historic environment in a new spirit.” While he acknowledged that the building had prompted a bitter debate, it had ultimately allowed Asplund’s successors to be accepted. “This freer expression was won in the middle of one of the most tradition-​filled city zones, the administrative center.”110

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Although Swedes were hesitant about embracing their own building, the response from other Scandinavian architects was more enthusiastic. Henningsen’s article in Byggmästaren was one indication. In Denmark, where Asplund’s name “always sounded like a fanfare,” to quote the architect Ivar Bentsen, Steen Eiler Rasmussen’s review in the Danish magazine Arkitekten was extremely positive: “Gothenburg’s courthouse is not just a fine piece of architecture but a beautiful humane building where you feel the architect has done the right thing not just for those who work in it but for people who pass through.”111 Arne Jacobsen also visited Gothenburg after the preparation of his competition entry of 1937 for the town hall at Aarhus.112 Both there and at the town hall in Søllerød, outside Copenhagen (1940–42), the influence of the Gothenburg extension is more pronounced in the decorative details than in the design as a whole. At Aarhus, wall lamps from the exterior and council-​chamber lamps from the interior seem to develop ideas from Gothenburg. The historian Kjeld Vindum considers the wooden covering for the walls and the rounded edges and softened contours of many of the details (from door frames to piers) particularly Scandinavian features also found in Gothenburg.113 At Korsør (Denmark), where Jacobsen submitted a competition entry that did not win, Asplund’s influence appears also in the window forms on the exterior.114 Asplund provided Jacobsen an interpretative stance that allowed adequate space for both the modern and the traditional, the new and the old. The importance of this covenant between the traditional and the modern was understood by Jacobsen and Møller in Aarhus, where the “modern and the classical are . . . fused in such a way that it is impossible

to say that one dominates the other.” A brass cap cushions the columns where they meet the ceiling, and a brass strip divides columns from floor.115 For Alvar Aalto the connection with Asplund was more critical. In his tribute to the Swedish architect, published in 1940, Aalto outlined Asplund’s importance. He distinguished Asplund from architects wedded to routine and traditional form as well as those for whom social science and scientific research provided the route to design. Asplund, he noted, contributed to a kind of architecture that “continues to use social and artistic methods, but extends them to cover psychological problems—‘man the unknown’—​in the broadest sense.”116 This reference to Alexis Carrel’s book Man, the Unknown (English ed., 1935; Swedish ed., 1936; Finnish ed., 1937) is important. The book, a favorite of Aalto’s, was enormously popular at the time. A Nobel Prize–winning French surgeon and biologist, Carrel argued that in the modern age too little attention had been given to the intellectual, moral, and psychological character of the human being. “Civilization,” he wrote, “has not succeeded in creating an environment suitable to mental activities. The low intellectual and spiritual values of most human beings is due largely to deficiencies of the psychological atmosphere.” Architects, he felt, should devote themselves to creating buildings that address the mind rather than buildings as simple shelter.117 Aalto recognized in Asplund a comrade in this struggle. In May 1935, just when Asplund was putting the finishing touches on designs for Gothenburg, Aalto presented to the Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts a lecture that also reflected Carrel’s influence. The speech recognized the limitations of the rational approach

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Figure 149 Alvar Aalto, Säynätsalo Town Hall, 1949–52, passageway to the council chamber.

to architecture and stressed the importance to the architect of reaching for psychological and spiritual values.118 It was a position that Asplund would have understood—​perhaps even supported—​though Aalto, compared to Asplund, was still relatively primitive in his application of these ideas to architecture. The careful placement of washbasins and painting of the ceilings in the hospital rooms at Paimio (completed 1932) seem modest compared to the ascent and progress through the Stockholm Public Library already mapped by Asplund in 1928. In the Villa Mairea in Noormarku (1938– 39) Aalto constructed an architectural forest with a sequence of sylvan vistas leading to the central fireplace to create a domestic model, 206

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and at the Säynätsalo Town Hall (1949–52) the approach and passage through the building to the council chamber approximated a promenade comparable to Gothenburg’s—​though symbolically far less potent (fig. 149). In Italy, Asplund was already a much admired figure before the war. In February 1938, in the magazine Architettura, the architect Saverio Muratori (1910–1973) undertook the most extensive study of Swedish architecture by a foreigner. Among his conclusions was that in Sweden there was no sharp distinction between “the functionalist and the academic schools.” Scandinavian architects had interpreted functionalism “not as an architectural reform, for they do not need it, but rather as an aesthetic evolution, a supplementary architecture.” Functionalism in the Swedish context brought “notes of beauty and harmony to daily life, the life that our time has exalted with forms always more varied and complex.” Later, in the 1950s, Muratori returned to Asplund to define his contribution to contemporary architecture: “All the immediate problems of today that remain to be resolved, but also those that remain to be resolved because they are life itself for architecture tomorrow, have been laid out by Asplund.” He then specified the issues that seemed of special importance: “The problem of how to place ornament on a building; whether to use the orders and the meaning of the orders; the problem of context, of how to express the purpose of the building; the problem of how to relate the relative values of context.” Finally and most important for Muratori, Asplund contributed to an understanding “of the problem of monumental architecture and nonmonumental architecture.” Though he had not seen it in person, the Gothenburg courthouse extension was not a building he completely admired. In the interior he thought

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Asplund had been “seriously engaged,” but he judged the façade to be “rather ugly” (bruttino). Would his opinion have softened had sculpture been in place? Whatever the case, the problem was not Asplund’s alone. Modern architectural culture could not meet Asplund’s “profound” and “intimate” poetic ambitions, thus forcing him to create a work that was “inadequate to its premises.”119 Nonetheless, in works like the Palace of the Christian Democratic Party in Rome (1955–58), one can see Muratori working to assimilate both old and new in a building that owes some of its freedom to Asplund (fig. 150). Elsewhere in Europe, the courthouse extension continued to attract attention, although nothing like the rest of Asplund’s oeuvre. An overview of Scandinavian architecture published in the Dutch periodical de 8 en Opbouw in 1938 made extensive reference to Gothenburg and to Ericsson’s concert hall and to Asplund’s bacteriological laboratory in Stockholm, but it did not mention the courthouse extension.120 In Hungary, Elemér Nagy’s overview of Asplund’s work (1974) provided material on Asplund for a Hungarian audience keen to avoid the rhetoric of socialist realism and unable to look openly toward the United States and capitalist Western Europe.121 For the British, though they followed his development closely, the Asplund of the period of “Swedish Grace,” before the Stockholm Exhibition, remained especially potent.122 In 1948, for example, Architectural Review adopted Swedish modernism as the approved source for the New Empiricism, and in 1955 Eric de Maré published a short overview entitled Gunnar Asplund: A Great Modern Architect, which summarized English enthusiasm for the architect. He puzzled over the disfavor initially expressed for the courthouse extension in Gothenburg: “This was a strange reaction for today few, even in

Figure 150 Saverio Muratori, Palazzo della Democrazia Cristiana, Rome, 1955–58, east façade. Through such architecture the Christian Democrats, as the ruling party in Italy after World War II, wanted to present themselves both as modernizers and as in touch with tradition. Giancarlo Cataldi.

that sedate town, would disagree with the final judgment that Asplund’s building was brilliant.” He recognized the building’s newly fashionable status.123 Although neither architect nor building are named (a puzzling omission), the generation of interest in Asplund and the Gothenburg courthouse extension rose to a new level with the publication of Robert Venturi’s Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture (1966).124 The issues raised by the façade are just those that seem to have mattered to Venturi. Indeed, it is hard to determine precisely which characteristics described by Venturi are most thoroughly reflected by the façade. In celebrating P ubl ic A rc hi t ec t ure Af t er A sp l und

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“both-​and” as one of the contradictory virtues of architecture, Venturi highlights the kind of tension found between axes in the pilasters and the windows of Asplund’s building. In describing an order that “accommodates the circumstantial contradictions of a complex reality,” Venturi could equally well have had Asplund’s building in mind. Later Venturi refers to a special relationship between outside and inside that could also refer to the courthouse extension: “Contrast between the inside and the outside can be a major manifestation of contradiction in architecture.”125 The distortion of traditional elements, so unsettling to Segerstedt, was depoliticized in Venturi’s work. Venturi prepared the way for an architect like Michael Graves, in whose introductory design course at Princeton University Asplund’s Villa Snellman was often used as a model. For many, Graves’s essay “The Swedish Connection,” published in 1975, served as an introduction to the kind of postmodernist architecture based in metaphor that Graves sought to create. For Graves, however, architecture’s reference point was only itself. In a discussion six years later on the subject of monumentality, he observed, “I don’t think that architecture is about social and political activity any more than I think that politics is about architecture.”126 This definition of “architecture for architecture’s sake” was a long way from the understanding of architecture by Asplund, Segerstedt, and Social Democratic Sweden. The other American architect to claim significant influence from Asplund at the time was Romaldo Giurgola (1920–). In 1975 Giurgola listed Asplund’s crematorium at the Woodland Cemetery as the work of architecture that had most influenced him. In his works from that period one can recognize Asplund’s

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influence in buildings such as Condon Hall at the University of Washington in Seattle (1975) and the Tredyffrin Public Library in Stafford, Pennsylvania (1976), where a skylight and wood paneling recall some of the character of the hall at Gothenburg. Somewhat later, Giurgola designed the corporate headquarters for Volvo in Gothenburg (1982–85), where the glass-​ walled courtyard at the courthouse extension may also be behind the formal character of the garden terrace.127 Yet it would be hard to ascribe these features only to his experience of Asplund. Giurgola worked with Louis Kahn at the University of Pennsylvania and saw the current-​day evolution of other Scandinavian architects, like Alvar Aalto, at the same time. Though Asplund’s fame increased gradually, it is fruitless to look for his direct formal influence: more-​current architecture that echoed Asplund was available. Only in 1978 was a small exhibition of Asplund’s work organized by Stuart Wrede at the Museum of Modern Art in New York (30 June–10 September), which brought Asplund to greater public attention. The exhibition subsequently traveled to Rice University, Houston; the Graham Foundation, Chicago; and the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. In 1980 Wrede published an overview of Asplund’s career that became the standard English-​language work.128 Further interest in Asplund’s work mounted after 1985, when the architecture museum in Stockholm held a major exhibition dedicated to the architect, and thereafter the number of publications increased: the mimeographed publication of the acts of the conference connected to the exhibition, edited by Christina Engfors (1987); a “coffee-​table” book edited by Claes Caldenby and Olof Hultin (1985); a penetrating essay by Thomas Hellquist on the

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courthouse extension (1987); and, most important, the extensively illustrated essay by the English architectural critic Peter Blundell Jones on the courthouse extension (1987).129 Among architects, the Englishman Colin St. John Wilson (1992–2007) and the American Paul Byard (1939–2008) were two of those most strongly drawn to Asplund. In an essay to accompany an exhibition at the Architectural Association (October 1988), St. John Wilson argued that Asplund was one of the architects that belonged to a tradition not represented in the standard histories of the modern movement, the histories of what he called (echoing Reginald Blomfield) Modernismus. Asplund, he noted, demonstrated a “heightened relationship to the past” as “intrinsic to the invention of the new.” Using the courthouse extension as reference point, he saw Asplund as drawing a narrative depth from the program not found in functionalism.130 Bringing alive the modernist tradition from architects like Asplund was also a way to show the roots of what St. John Wilson welcomed in new forms of postmodern architecture. For Byard, a great admirer of Asplund’s courthouse extension, Venturi’s ability to “abstract, rethink, and restore readable ornament as a component of architectural expression” was part of the foundation for the American’s own appreciation of Asplund.131 On two occasions Byard summarized information about the courthouse and highlighted its importance. “The hierarchy of the whole,” he wrote in a book on the problem of architectural additions, “is beautifully balanced with the symbolic building still foremost, the supporting annex using its modern difference not just to assert its relative plainness and subordination but also to say something important

about the work within the courthouse as a whole. Formality, rationality, and openness—​ even friendliness—​are integrated in an enviable representation of what justice should be.”132 Later, in an essay on Cass Gilbert’s Supreme Court Building, Washington, D.C. (1928–35), Byard used Asplund’s Gothenburg Courthouse extension as a comparatum to show how modernism opened up new, timely forms of expression: “What Asplund was able to do that Gilbert could not—​and could not have been expected to do—​was to explore in his courthouse the great ethical revolution of his times. Underneath the slogans—​form follows function, ornament is crime—​the modernists in 1935 were making a powerful ethical claim, an insistence on an engagement of reality free of pretense.”133 Perhaps because he was also trained as a lawyer, Byard was one of the only people to have fully appreciated Asplund’s work for its contribution to the expression of law. Asplund’s definition of the new style of public architecture stands at the head of a tradition of modest modernity in public architecture that develops after World War II. The restful, abstract, well-​lit open hall is characteristic of public architecture in this period; it is a form of personal exposure to which we are accustomed. It was buildings like Asplund’s courthouse extension that led the way. The selection of Sven Markelius to design the Economic and Social Council chamber at the United Nations Secretariat Building in 1951–52, a gift from the people of Sweden, is significant. Markelius had, of course, been Asplund’s collaborator in acceptera and had worked with him at the Stockholm Exhibition (1930), and he suffused the new space for international discussion with light and air, exposing everyone to the light of

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Figure 151 Sven Markelius, Economic and Social Council interior, United Nations Secretariat Building, New York, 1951–52.

day from its grand window overlooking the Hudson River (fig. 151). In the postwar period architects sustained the virtues of openness and modesty in public building that Asplund had effectively captured twenty years earlier—​ though forgetting the complexity and losing the lightness of touch that Asplund brought to the making of architecture. Later this virtue of restraint was lost as public architecture sometimes sought to compete with the spectacular effects created in the corporate world. In Learning from Las Vegas, Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour address the explosion of “symbolic forms, which recall the General Grant period, and the revival of 210

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the medieval piazza and its palazzo pubblico” in buildings such as Kallman, McKinnell & Knowles’s Boston City Hall (1962–69). Better, they argued, a “conventional loft . . . with a blinking sign on top saying i am a monument” (fig. 152).134 Buildings led the way on the path to the “me” generation. Finding a suitable language for our town halls and courthouses, our museums and parliaments, remains as hard today as it was for Asplund in 1934. Programs to bring “design excellence” to public buildings are one of governments’ responsibilities, but how to evaluate their success? What may have been chosen with the best of intentions may well trouble

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Figure 152 Robert Venturi, “i am a monument.” From Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour, Learning from Las Vegas: The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1977), fig. 139. © 1977 Massachusetts Institute of Technology and used by permission of the MIT Press.

succeeding generations. “That building looks like Darth Vader. Do we have to go in?” asked a young child when she saw Haines, Lundberg & Waehler’s Manhattan Family Courthouse, New York (1976).135 What would Asplund have made of research showing that for one population, in Padua, in northern Italy, a modern courthouse (Gino Valle, architect, 1991–95) elicited greater feelings of discomfort than did a traditional building? Participants thought an

innocent friend, wrongfully accused, would be more likely to be convicted in the modern building than in the older structure.136 In establishing the ideals for modern public architecture, Asplund did not solve the problem for all time and may not have solved all the problems in his own time. He did prove, however, that the problem of the public building was soluble and that its imaginative solution should remain a high ideal.

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Notes

Introduction

1.  Piacentini, “Dove è irragionevole l’architettura razionale,” 277. Originally published in 1931. 2.  Reilly, “Town Hall Problem.” 3.  Reilly, “Monumental Qualities in Architecture,” 195. 4.  Laprade, “Discours,” 25. 5.  On the subject of monuments, see Riegl, “Der moderne Denkmalkultus.” On the issue of monumentality in the twentieth century, see Lane, “Changing Attitudes to Monumentality”; Collins and Collins, “Monumentality”; and Forster, “Monument/​ Memory.” 6. Ruskin, Seven Lamps, 100. 7. Valéry, Eupalinos, 23–24. 8.  Quoted in Collins and Collins, “Monumentality,” 17. 9. Borsi, Monumental Era, 54. 10.  Quoted in Joseph Sharples, “Reilly and His Students, on Merseyside and Beyond,” in Sharples, Powers, and Shippobottom, Charles Reilly, 28. 11.  On Reilly, see Richmond, Marketing Modernisms. The quotation comes from Christopher Crouch, “Design Initiatives in Liverpool, 1881– 1914” (Ph.D. thesis, Liverpool University, 1992), 122, quoted in ibid., 41. 12.  Paulsson, “Ny monumentalitet” [The new monumentality], in Den nya arkitekturen, 86–105. 13.  As reproduced in Conrads, Programmes and Manifestoes, 36. 14.  Hannes Meyer 1889–1954, 105. 15.  Mumford, “Death of the Monument,” 264. 16.  See the discussion in Moos, Le Corbusier, 261–62, and Ákos Moravánszky, “Peter Meyer and the Swiss Discourse on Monumentality,” Future Anterior 8 (2011): 1–23. 17.  Consideration of this topic represents part of the evaluation of the status of “the modern” in architecture. See Oechslin, Otto Wagner, Adolf Loos.

18.  Translation of “Asplunds rådhustillbyggnad,” as it is commonly written in Swedish, is vexatious. “Asplund’s law courts” and “Asplund’s courthouse,” with or without the word “extension” or “addition,” are frequent. I have decided to use “courthouse extension,” reserving the word “courthouse” for the original building, by Nicodemus Tessin the Elder. Another thorny translation problem is the building on Gustaf Adolf square called in Swedish “Börsen.” Traditionally this translates as “Stock Exchange,” but since the building did not fill the function of a stock exchange, I have preferred to translate it as “Exchange Building,” evoking the mixture of business, social interchange, and entertainment that went on there. 19.  See, for example, Byard, Architecture of Additions, 32–36. 20.  A brilliant exception is the recent study of the Rathaus in Hamburg by Umbach, German Cities. 21.  See, for example, Löfgren, Rummet och rätten, and Bloxham Zettersten, Nordiskt perspektiv på arkitektur. 22. Frankl, Principles of Architectural History, 157–58. 23.  Acking, “Erik Gunnar Asplund: Il suo lavoro,” 22. 24. Wrede, Architecture of Erik Gunnar Asplund, 163. 25. Schorske, Fin-de-​Siècle Vienna. 26.  Joseph Siry, The Chicago Auditorium Building: Adler and Sullivan’s Architecture and the City (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Blau, Architecture of Red Vienna. 27.  On the importance of these foundations for music alone, see Carlsson, “Handel och Bacchus,” 96–100. 28. Therborn, Borgarklass och byråkrati, 88–89. 29.  August Strindberg, Tjänstekvinnans son, 56. This moment in the novel is dated to 1872.

30.  See, for example, Fritz, Från handelsstad till industristad, and K. Olsson, Från industristad till tjänste­stad. There is no modern history of Gothenburg. Fritz and Olsson, though focused on economic issues, provide the best overview. 31.  On art collecting in Gothenburg, see Nordstrand, Konstliv i Göteborg. 32.  GHT, 24 November 1925, p. 12. 33.  Östberg, “Göteborgstäflingen.” 34.  Asplund, “Planmässigheten,” 109.

Chapter 1

1.  For an overview of the relation of the aristocracy to the law, see Roberts, “On Aristocratic Constitutionalism.” 2.  Sveriges rikes lag collected all significant statutes of the day. See Tiberg et al., Swedish Law: A Survey. 3.  See Hallberg, “Mirrors of the Nation.” 4.  On the rådhus as a building type, see Zachrisson, “Rådhus och stadshus,” and Bloxham Zettersten, Nordiskt perspektiv på arkitektur, chap. 1. 5.  Rektor N. P. Nilssons efterlämnade dikter i urval, 5. 6. Rousseau, Social Contract, 68. 7.  Zachrisson, “Rådhus och stadshus,” 249, notes that not all courthouse buildings had towers. In the twentieth century the mayor of one Västergötland community tried to rent his own house to the town for their courthouse. See Tengbom, “Norrköpings rådhus.” 8. Zachrisson, Vadstena rådhus. In Söderköping there was a similar arrangement; see Zachrisson, “Rådhus och stadshus,” 247–48. 9.  Tamm et al., “Law and the Judicial System,” 29–30. 10.  On Åkerlund, see Eriksson Hultén, Resande i arkitektur.

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11.  When Erik Hahr built the new city hall in Västerås (1907), the restaurant and banqueting rooms almost overwhelmed the administrative wing. See Eriksson, Den moderna stadens födelse, 260–61. 12. Swensson, Paul Hoffman, 63 and 95. 13.  See Lane, National Romanticism. 14.  For example, Erik Gustaf Geijer’s poem “Vikingen” (The Viking), 1811. 15.  Ellen Key, Skönhet för alla (1899). On the youth movement in late nineteenth-​century Sweden, see Berggren, “Modernity and the Nordic Concept of Youth.” 16.  Grut, “Ur Skissboken”; Tengbom, “Om tegel.” Ekberg, Torben Grut. There has been one major “continuously published” professional architectural magazine in Sweden since 1901—​although its ownership and name have changed. In brief, the original architectural supplement to Teknisk tidskrift was called “Arkitektur och decorativ konst” and later appeared as its own magazine; over its lifespan it has changed its name to Byggmästaren (1922–59) and then to Arkitektur (from 1959). Its numbering does not, therefore, follow the conventional system by volume. 17.  Quoted in Ekberg, Torben Grut, 51. 18.  See Mårtelius, Göra arkitekturen historisk. 19.  It was a matter of civic pride for even the smallest town to build a courthouse. See Tengbom, “Norrköpings rådhus,” 1. 20.  The articles are all entitled “Svenska rådhus,” and the author was Agi Lindegren. See Teknisk tidskrift, no. 8 (1903), 103; no. 1 (1904), 15; no. 2 (1904), 32; no. 6 (1904), 19; no. 7 (1904), 113; no. 4 (1905), 72; no. 8 (1905), 150. Among the buildings illustrated are the courthouses in Alingsås, Enköping, Kristinehamn, Lund, Karlskrona, Karlshamn, Nyköping, Arboga, Köping, Norrköping, Mariefred, Gävle, Malmö, Örebro, Helsingborg, Lidköping, Hudiksvall, Sigtuna. 21.  For example, in Västerås, Borås, Norrköping, Östersund, and

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Stockholm, just to name the most prominent. 22.  Grut, “Förslag till nytt stadshus i Vesterås”; Grut, “Täflingen för nytt rådhus i Borås”; Grut, “Täflingen för nytt rådhus i Östersund”; C. Johansson, “Östersunds rådhus”; Tengbom, “Norrköpings rådhus.” 23.  This is what Ragnar Östberg described as “national architecture based upon the study of national edifices.” Quoted in E. Cornell, Stockholm Town Hall, 42. 24.  The city hall was originally to include judicial functions (1904). The final decision (1905) led to the selection of Östberg and the exclusion of the law court. But though the plan, with its double courtyard, seems to have been important for Asplund, the siting was of little relevance to Gothenburg. See Atmer, Stockholms stadshus. 25.  Seglora moved to Skansen in 1916; see Palm, Arkitekten Carl Westman, 188. Palm identifies further Vasa sources at Gripsholm and Malmöshus. 26.  Wahlman, “Stockholms nya rådhus,” 14. 27.  Ibid., 15. Ehrensvärd had questioned the role the column played in the northern climate. Clason too observed that while columns played a significant role in articulating walls in the South, in the North the portico and windows played the more prominent role in articulating the wall. See Mårtelius, Göra arkitekturen historisk, 120–21. 28. Paulsson, Den nya arkitekturen, 105. 29. Hillebrecht, Göteborg in der nordischen Kulturideologie, 28. 30. Whitelocke, Journal of the Swedish Embassy, 1:172. 31. Fritz, Från handelsstad till industristad, 112–13. Gothenburg surpassed Stockholm in imports in 1911; see ibid., 270. 32.  The earliest description is Cederbourg, En kort beskrifning, chap. ii, 81–82. 33.  Ibid., 82. 34.  For an overview, see Malinowski and Schulz, Ny puts på gammal fasad. Also: Fredberg, Det gamla Göteborg, 2:480–81.

35.  Fredrik Åkerblom’s fictionalized account of Gothenburg in the late eighteenth century has the visitor describe the courthouse as seeming “somewhat depressed” and indeed lower than the Governor’s House. His interlocutor, a woman named M:lle Rika, informs him of plans to raise the height of the courthouse. Åkerblom, I Göteborg, 40. 36.  Hwatt nytt, 20 December 1776 (quoted in Kjellin, Göteborgs börs- och festivitets byggnad, 13). On the many activities in the courthouse, see Fredberg, Det gamla Göteborg, 2:477–79. 37.  Gothenburg in this period had two mayors (borgarmästare). One was a judicial official appointed by the state; the other, political and administrative. This system was abolished in 1932. For the term that translates literally as “judicial mayor,” I use the term “chief magistrate.” 38. Cederbourg, En kort beskrifning, chap. ii, 83, provides some of its early history as well. 39. Lönnroth, Hus för hus, 499–500. 40.  See Lagerberg, Göteborgare, 1:89–90. 41. Lloyd, Field Sports of the North of Europe, 1:361. 42.  See Simmonsen, Bland hederligt folk. 43.  De Tréverret, “Voyage en Norvège,” 20–21. 44.  Carl Palmstedt quoted in Nordstrand, Konstliv i Göteborg, 48 (“drifwa bort konstbarbariet från denna stela kust”). 45.  In Swedish: “Nej, Gud bevars, här finns ingen som intresserar sig för annat än Bacchus och Handel.” See Carlsson, “Handel och Bacchus,” 74. 46.  If the entire area of greater Gothenburg is included, the population reached 250,000 by 1920. Fritz, Från handelsstad till industristad, 23. By comparison, the population of Stockholm between 1850 and 1900 rose from 93,000 to 300,000 (323%); Copenhagen: 129,000 to 462,000 (358%); Oslo: 29,000 to 227,000 (783%). The population of Sweden in 1850 was around 3.1 million; in 1900 it was about 5.1 million.

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47.  Between 1857 and 1877, the assets of commercial banks grew from 37 million to 457 million kronor, and their deposits from 8 million to 218 million kronor. Fritz, Från handelsstad till industristad, 174–75. 48.  On the rowing guilds (founded in 1679), see Krantz, I krinolinens tidevarv, 195–203. 49. Samuelsson, From Great Power to Welfare State, 213. Among the banks built in this period on Södra Hamngatan were Göteborgs handelsbank (architect: Ernst Krüger), Nordiska handelsbank (architects: A. Führe and C. Nyqvist, 1921), Göteborgs köpmansbank (architect: K. Johnson, 1891), Riksbank (architect: Viktor Adler, 1886), and Försäkrings AB Skandia (architect: G. H. Wickman, 1909–11). On Västra Hamngatan were Göteborgs enskilda bank (architect: G. Krüger, 1888, addition in 1904; renovated by Nils Einar Eriksson, 1938), Skandinaviska kredit AB (architects: A. and H. Humlien, 1882), and Försäkringsbolaget Svea (architects: A. E. Melander with H. Hedlund and Y. Rasmussen, 1888). Gegerfelt and Edelsvärd’s Wijk family house at Södra Hamngatan 7 / Lilla Torget 1, combining offices with the family’s private residence, was transformed to Lifförsäkrings aktiebolaget Svea after 1929. 50.  For a description of the celebrations, see Högtidligheterna före, under och efter Gustaf-Adolf-​statyens aftäckning. On the role of the monumental public statue in nineteenth-​ century Sweden, see Rodell, Att gjuta en nation. On the influence of the statue on Gothenburg’s self-​image, see Adams, “Making a Heritage to Defend.” 51.  “Vid aftäckandet af Gustaf II Adolfs Bildstod i Götheborg,” GHT, 28 November 1854, p. 3. 52.  Josef Czapek, “Minne af Gustaf Adolfs-​festen i Götheborg: Vald samling af dans-​musik för pianoforte, utförd på Börs-​balen den 20 November 1854,” GHT, 21 November 1854, p. 3. 53.  Advertisement in GHT, 25 November 1854, p. 4. 54. Lönnroth, Från rådhus och fattigstuga till Traktören, 31.



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55. Lagerberg, Göteborgare, 1:20. 56.  Ibid., 1:78. 57.  See Houltz, Teknikens tempel, 94–101. 58. Edholm, Svunna dagar, 46. 59.  On the mythic status of Gustav Adolf, see Rosenqvist, Hem till historien, which describes how C. T. Odhner in the 1870s helped present the king in schoolbooks. See also the historical romances by Zacharias Topelius, Fältskärns berättelser: Cykel 1 (Stockholm: Bonnier, 1859). 60.  Events began around midday with orchestral music (see GHT, 5 November 1910, p. 10). Later a massed choir of schoolchildren sang patriotic songs. The same songs were then repeated at 7:30 by a men’s chorus in the courthouse and again in the square, where further patriotic songs were sung. Finally, a torch parade took place with representatives from the Göte Artillery Regiment and athletic societies. 61.  For example, from the celebrations of 1882 alone, see the speeches of Teofron Säve (Karlstad), Julius Centerwall (Söderhamn), Ernst Carlson (Gothenburg), Oscar Josef Alin (Uppsala), and Harald Ahlberger (Nyköping). All are available at the Royal Library, Stockholm. 62.  On the popularity of certain patriotic melodies, see Enefalk, En patriotisk drömvärld. Yet even a socialist like Kaj Björk remembered Gustav Adolfsdagen fondly. See Björk, Ett 30-​tal: Minnesbilder, 13. 63. Anrick, Lindhagen, and Stenberger, En bok om Göteborg, 36. 64. Bondeson, Skollärare John Cronschoughs memoarer, 141. 65.  For the reputation of Gustav Adolf, see Oredsson, Gustav II Adolf, 342–46. 66.  August Strindberg, Gustav Adolf, 201. 67.  Engström, “Gustav Adolfs minne.” 68.  Göteborg (med dess omgifning), 2:7. 69.  Handbook for Travelers in Sweden, 5th ed. (London: John Murray, 1877), 71. 70.  GSH, 15 April 1886, no. 32; see 10–11.

71.  GSH, 2 November 1893, no. 114; GSH, 2 February and 8 March 1894, no. 10. 72.  This process of expansion through incorporation continued. In 1922 Gothenburg added Örgryte (22,000 residents). 73.  See the summary in GSH 1904, no. 44, 1–3. 74.  GSH, 1894, no. 10, 15. 75.  GSH, 1904, no. 44, 27–28. 76. Ericson, Bidrag till lösning af Göteborgs rådhusfråga. 77.  “Ett originellt uppslag i vår rådhusfråga,” GHT, 13 June 1905, p. 3. Ericson’s proposal to expose the church echoed German proposals to disencumber the cathedrals at Frankfurt, Ulm, and Cologne. These plans stalled around 1900 under the impact of the writings of Camillo Sitte. For the German background, see Ladd, Urban Planning and Civic Order in Germany, 123–38. 78.  Gothenburg Provincial Archive (Landsarkiv), Göteborgs Rådhusrätt Avd. 1, E xvii:1, Remisshandlingarna på magistratens vägnar, 16 April 1912. This discussion was prompted by a proposal of the architect Oscar Alarik that would have destroyed the courthouse; see GHT, 3 February 1912, p. 17. 79.  GSH, 12 December 1912, no. 69, 7–9. The committee report is dated 12 December 1905. Otto Mannheimer (1860–1924) was husband to the artist Charlotte Mannheimer, and their home was a meeting place for Gothenburg’s cultural elite. 80.  Oscar Alarik, director of a printing company (Göteborgs litografiskaaktiebolag), prepared his own solution to the “courthouse question,” which he delivered to the editors of Handelstidningen; see “Hvar Göteborgs rådhus skulle kunna ligga,” GHT, 3 February 1912, p. 17. 81.  There was one suite of offices for the trade representative and police chief that might be construed as not related to the judiciary. The program specified that the suite should be adaptable to other uses at a later point. The competition program is found in GSH, 1912, no. 69, bil. E. The

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magazine Teknisk tidskrift also carried an announcement of the competition (no. 10, 1912, 128). 82. See GSH, 1912, no. 69, 1–6.

Chapter 2

1.  The city also needed to acquire two smaller buildings behind the Governor’s House. 2.  He calls it “not particularly beautiful” in his commentary to the competition entry, quoted by Fredlund, “Asplunds om- och tillbyggnad” (1970), 119. 3.  The critical phrase in Swedish is “rättvisans värdighet.” GSH, 1917, no. 157, 7. 4.  Ibid., 20 and 22. 5.  See Verner von Heidenstam, “Modern barbarism: Några ord mot restaurerandet av historiska byggnader,” in Stridsskrifter av Verner von Heidenstam, 40–55, originally written for the newspaper Dagens nyheter (1891). Heidenstam’s words echoed widely within Swedish society; see Gedin, Verner von Heidenstam, 373–75. 6.  Vidi, 24 May 1916, p. 1. The offensive tools are called “krysshammare och reffelhammare,” and the approved tools “bredjärna och träklubba.” For later discussion, see Vidi, 7 June 1916, p. 3. The references to “direktör Jag Axel” come in Vidi, 20 May 1914, p. 4. When Romdahl purchased a bust of himself for 5,000 kronor, the paper commented sardonically on the fact that people a thousand years hence would think Romdahl had been some kind of bigwig. See Vidi, 17 May 1916, p. 1. 7.  The most authoritative discussion of Asplund’s designs for the square is by Eva Eriksson, “Visionen om ett nytt stadscentrum.” On the Charles Felix Lindberg Foundation, see Romdahl and Beyer, Charles Felix Lindbergs donationsfond, and Mörck, Charles Felix Lindbergs donationsfond. 8.  See Asplund’s own photo of the Piazza della Signoria, ARKM 1988104-2950. Moving the statue to the site of the square could also reflect the theories of Camillo Sitte, who favored sculpture placed against a wall. See

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Sitte, City Planning According to Artistic Principles, 156–57. 9. See GSH, 1912, no. 258. 10.  Asplund, “Planmässigheten.” 11.  Asplund, “Aktuella arkitektoniska faror.” The importance of this essay for Asplund’s thinking about urbanistic issues has been pointed out by Eva Eriksson, Mellan tradition och modernitet, 342–44. 12.  Quotations from Asplund, “Aktuella arkitektoniska faror,” 129 and 130. 13.  For Asplund’s commentary to his submission for the Charles Felix Lindberg Foundation (30 November 1915), see GSH, 1926, no. 462, 27–29. 14.  GSH, 1926, no. 462, 28. 15. Strömbom, Gustaf Adolfs torg och rådhuset. 16.  Asplund noted the booklet in Teknisk tidskrift, no. 5 (1917), 70. 17. Strömbom, Gustaf Adolfs torg och rådhuset, 25. 18.  “Ordnandet af Gustaf Adolfs torg,” 133. 19. Strömbom, Gustaf Adolfs torg och rådhuset, 44. 20.  See Hall, “Urban Planning in Sweden.” 21.  On the influence of Sitte, see Linn, “Sitte secondo una prospettiva svedese.” See Bjur, Stadsplanering kring 1900. See also Eriksson, Den moderna stadens födelse, 282–93. 22. Sitte, City Planning According to Artistic Principles, 106–7. 23. Umbach, German Cities, 119–22. 24.  I have drawn on Jean-​François Lejeune, “Schinkel, Sitte, and Loos,” and Ákos Moravánszky, “Forced Spontaneities,” in Bohl and Lejeune, Sitte, Hegemann, and the Metropolis, 69–98 and 109–22, respectively. See also Porfyriou, “Camillo Sitte und das Primat des Sichtbaren.” 25.  Blundell Jones, “Gothenburg Law Courts,” pt. 1, 43. 26.  Lampers, “Rådhusets historia,” 19. 27.  In 1921 Gothenburg’s city planner, Albert Lilienberg, was still pressing the themes from his training with Camillo Sitte and asked for a plan from Asplund that did not preserve so

deliberately the form of the square at a particular time period. There is no record of Asplund’s designs from this date. See Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds om- och tillbyggnad” (1970), 106–7. The Jubilee Exhibition ultimately opened in May 1923. For the exhibition, see Houltz, Teknikens tempel, 58–65. 28.  See the report by Lilienberg, 1 November 1921, in GSH, 1926, no. 462, 43–44. 29.  GSH, 1926, no. 462, 46. 30.  Ibid., 45 and 49. 31.  Ahlberg, “Gunnar Asplund Architect,” 48. See Paul Letarouilly, Édifices de Rome moderne; ou, Recueil des palais, maisons, églises, couvents et autres monuments publics et particuliers les plus remarquables de la ville de Rome, 3 vols. (Paris: A. Morel, 1840–57). 32.  The poster for the exhibition showed the port of Gothenburg with its modern steamers and packet boats seen across the prow of a seventeenth-​ century sailing ship. 33.  August Sarnitz, “Realism Versus Verniedlichung: The Design of the Great City,” in Mallgrave, Otto Wagner, 84–112. Wagner, Die Großstadt. On the wider influence of similar totalizing designs, see Sonne, “ ‘The Entire City.’ ” 34.  The connections between the United States and Sweden were important. H. H. Richardson had influenced Ferdinand Boberg (1860–1946), and prominent Swedish architects had visited the United States to help prepare Swedish exhibitions for the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. The Swedish architect Victor Bodin had, in fact, practiced in America (1880–98) before returning home to work for Isak Gustaf Clason. See Stavenow-​Hidemark, Villabebyggelse i Sverige, 47–52. The skyscraper constructed on Kungsgatan in Stockholm (1919–24) by Sven Wallander (1890–1968) was an obvious recollection of North America. See also Franklin D. Scott, “American Influences in Norway and Sweden,” Journal of Modern History 28 (1946): 37–47, and Birgitta Steene, “The Swedish Image of America,” in Houe and

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Rossel, Images of America in Scandinavia, 145–91. 35.  GHT, 11 October 1924, p. 2 (Saturday supplement). 36.  GHT, 16 December 1926, p. 12. 37.  GSH, 1925, no. 577, 13–14. 38. Paulsson, Den nya arkitekturen, 105. 39.  GMP, 2 January 1926, p. 1. 40.  GHT, 9 January 1926, p. 3. 41.  Lampers, “Rådhusets historia,” 19–20. 42.  Yttranden av häradshövdingar; see 489–98. 43.  GSH, 1929, no. 236. 44.  GSH, 1931, no. 226. 45.  The commission was initially intended for Asplund, but he either did not accept the location proposed for the poles or, under pressure of work elsewhere, was not able to deliver proposals. See RSG, Kommittén för Charles Felix Lindbergs donationsfond, handlingar, 1923–1934, F.V.3, letters of Henning Beyer to Asplund, 13 August 1929 and 23 September 1929. Carl Milles declined the commission in 1926. 46.  See Unga, Socialdemokratin och arbetslöshetsfrågan. 47.  See A. Johansson, Löneutvecklingen och arbetslösheten. Ohlin, Penningpolitik, offentliga arbeten, subventioner och tullar. Ohlin’s study is published as SOU, 1934:12. See also SOU, 1934:44, with parliamentary discussions in 1931–34. SOU, 1934:2. 48.  See, for example, the unsigned memorandum dated 28 August 1933 prepared on the basis of a request dated 22 February 1932 from the magistracy. The author concludes that the magistrates should ask the city council to take up Asplund’s drawings from 12 September 1925; that they should urge the city to purchase (or expropriate) the lot behind the Governor’s House; and, finally, that the city council should set up a special committee to oversee the proposal for the courthouse extension. LG, E.xvii:1. 49.  See, for example, Lindberg to Asplund, 10 November 1934 (ARKM 88-02-​D3616). 50.  Lindberg to Asplund, 14 November 1933 (ARKM 88-02-​D3584).



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51.  The first meetings concerning Asplund’s contract were in September 1934; the contract is dated 1 November 1934 and signed by all parties. The report of opposition to Asplund within the magistracy is reported by Lindberg to Asplund, 10 November 1933 (ARKM 88-020-​D3583). The tone of urgency is apparent in letters to Asplund, 17 November (ARKM 88-02-​ D3619HE), and in a telegram sent to him at the Cumberland Hotel, London (ARKM 88-02-​D3626HE). 52.  From the diary column I dag (usually authored by the editor, Torgny Segerstedt), GHT, 12 November 1934, p. 9. Less than a year later (1 April 1935) in the same paper, the commentator “Hipp.” wrote a column proposing the destruction of Tessin’s Courthouse and its exact reconstruction on the opposite side of the square, leaving the area in front of the church open as a little park. As part of the account, he imagined that the spirit of Tessin had been summoned for his opinion. His proposal, to open the square to the church, was not unlike Asplund’s own proposal! 53. Nordin, Alice och Hjördis, 316. 54.  Ahlberg, “Gunnar Asplund Architect,” 61. 55.  Åman, “Om acceptera,” 201–2. 56.  Ibid., 201. Åman notes the “playful and disrespectful tone” of the chapter, which recalls Asplund. Certain images must also have come from Asplund’s own office. Creagh prefers the idea of collective authorship. See Lucy Creagh, “An Introduction to acceptera,” in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 133 and 138n35. My view is that the differences in tone, language, and subject matter can only be explained by different authors. The chapter “Nytt och gammalt” (The new and the old), with its formal preoccupations and bantering humor, better corresponds to Asplund’s professed interests and character than any of the other chapters. 57.  Acking notes Asplund’s self-​ critical streak; see Acking, “Artist and Professional,” 19. 58.  Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern

Swedish Design, 295; quotation from 308. 59.  Ibid., 338. 60.  Ibid., 289, 290, 315, 325, 330. 61.  Ibid., 328. 62.  The standard construction history is Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds projekt för Göteborgs rådhus,” 64–105. Unfortunately, the thesis is only lightly footnoted, and it has not always been possible to substantiate its claims. Fredlund, for example, does not report that the court had approved Asplund’s plans early in November 1933. The decision, according to the chief magistrate, Bernhard Lindberg, in a letter of 10 November 1933 (ARKM 88-02-​D3583), had been split, with four members of the court opposed. Lindberg reports that he could not find corrected copies of the drawings for the façade and asked for new copies. He also wondered about the possibility of adding a door into the Gustaf Adolf–square façade! 63. Carlé, Redogörelse för Göteborgs juristklubbs verksamhet, 45. 64. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, letter of 15 September 1934. 65.  On the membership of the committee, see Landzelius, “Dis­[re]­ mem­bering Spaces,” 124–26. Stendahl worked for many years in the city real-​estate office as well as the architectural office of the Drätselkammaren, overseeing numerous works in Gothenburg. 66.  All updated changes to the drawings had to be approved by the building committee, a point Asplund protested. See Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds projekt för Göteborgs rådhus,” 66. 67. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1. See also ARKM 88-02-​D3633. 68.  Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds projekt för Göteborgs rådhus,” 66–68. The term that Fredlund uses to describe the façade is kuliss, effectively a “stage flat.” 69. Engfors, E. G. Asplund: Architect, Friend, and Colleague, 26.

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70.  Ibid., 85. 71.  See, for example, GHT, 22 October 1927, p. 16. 72.  GP, 27 March 1928, p. 2, quoted in Ek and Ringby, “Göteborgs Stadsteater,” 248. Alkman’s articles on the exterior (“Stadsteatern och Götaplatsen”) and the interior (“Stadsteaterns inre utrustning”) appeared in GP, 7 April 1928, p. 2, and 14 April 1928, pp. 2 + 5. On Alkman, see Zweigbergk, Ung på 90-​talet. 73.  GMP, 28 March 1928, p. 6. 74.  GMP, 4 April 1928, p. 6. 75.  The Ericson letters are located in ARKM 1965-10, box 8 (Bergsten), in a folder labeled “Diverse utredningar.” These issues are also discussed in GSH 1929, no. 203, and 1930, no. 20. See also GHT, 2 February to 12 February 1931. 76. See GHT, 12 February 1931, p. 11. 77.  “Denna fasad är tidsenlig, d.v.s. den uttrycker vår tids vanmakt när det gäller monumentala uppgifter. Den vacklar mellan traditionslöshet och traditionalism, mellan fasadarkitektur och interiörkonst, mellan lyx och kärvhet, mellan det förblivande och det provisoriska.” GHT, 3 February 1931, p. 3, quoted in Ek and Ringby, “Göteborgs Stadsteater,” 251. 78.  For further discussion of the controversy over the façade, see Ek and Ringby, “Göteborgs Stadsteater”; for Romdahl and opinions on the façade, see 251. 79. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 9 February 1935. 80.  See Stendahl to Asplund, 20 February 1935 (ARKM 88-02-​ D3669), and Lindberg to Asplund (ARKM 88-02-​D3682). 81.  See the memoranda of 9 March 1935 (ARKM 88-020-​D3656) and Lindberg to Asplund, 14 March 1935 (ARKM 88-02-​D3685). 82. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 27 March 1935, § 60. 83.  Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds projekt för Göteborgs rådhus,” 72.

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84. Engfors, E. G. Asplund: Architect, Friend, and Colleague, 29. Rissén, in his interview, suggests that this “competition” took place when Asplund was in America lecturing. Since those lectures did not take place until 1938, his account is faulty. Since Rissén was rather resentful at the assignment given him (and at Asplund’s selection of Ahlsén’s design for construction), there is no reason to think the entire anecdote is false. 85. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 10 May 1935. See also Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds projekt för Göteborgs rådhus,” 76. According to the report delivered by Karl Samuelsson, at some point in 1935 Asplund “modernized” his designs. The building committee approved these designs before August 1935. See GSH, 1937, no. 125, 1–2. 86.  For example, see the sequence at the Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal: DR1994-103, DR1994104, DR1994-105, DR1994-106, DR1994-107, DR1994-108 (traditional designs), DR 1994-110, DR1994-111, DR1994-112 (more-​modern designs, including one proposal with sculpture in the corner). 87.  GHT, 18 July 1935, p. 10. 88.  Confirmed in the report made by Karl Samuelsson in 1937; see GSH, 1937, no. 125, 2. 89. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, promemoria of Gerdt Stendhal, 11 January 1936. 90.  Fredlund, “E. G. Asplunds projekt för Göteborgs rådhus,” 83. The shift from stone to plaster was still noted in a memorandum to the Gothenburg Building Committee, 28 April 1936, which suggests both the speed of change and the complexity of keeping all the administrative bodies up to date (see ARKM 88-02-​D699). The change in surface also influenced the interior walls, as a promemoria from 2 May 1936 reveals (see ARKM 88-02-​D672). On the committee’s reluctance to challenge Asplund’s aesthetic judgment, see the report by Karl Samuelsson from November 1937

to the city council: GSH, 1937, no. 125, 2–3. 91. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 20 March 1936, §202. 92.  Ibid., 1935–37, F1:1, letter of Asplund to John Eliasson, 21 November 1935. 93.  See, for example, Ivan Nyborg to Asplund, 2 April 1937 (ARKM 88-02-​D833). 94.  The new chief magistrate, Ivan Nyborg, had opinions about the size and arrangement of the Bible stand (ARKM 88-02-​D842), as noted 19 April 1937. 95.  For a thorough examination of the furniture, see Wickman, “Estetik för demokrati.” 96.  Acking, “Asplund as Teacher and Principal,” 66. Had Asplund glanced at the recent edition of Sveriges rikes lag, however, he could have read about the judge’s duty to remain impartial. See, for example, Sveriges rikes lag, xxiv–xxv. 97.  See, for example, Torgny Segerstedt, “Anklagelse och dom,” in Ur spalterna (Stockholm: Bonnier, 1933), 14–18. Segerstedt’s commentary is dated 19 February 1927. 98.  Asplund to Ivan Nyborg, 5 June 1936 (ARKM 88-02-​D3924). Acking reports that some of the problems around chair height had to do with the small stature of the chief magistrate. See Acking, “Asplund as Teacher and Principal,” 67. 99. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1935–37, F1:1, meetings of 20 April 1936 and 17 March 1937. 100.  Asplund, “Det nya rådhuset,” 60. 101.  Asplund was interested in decoration for the entry hall between the courtyard and Gustaf Adolf square. See ARKM 88-02-​D5755. There had been proposals for fresco decoration of the courtyard arcades in April 1936; these proposals had been rejected by Asplund. See GT, 20 April 1936, p. 1; 21 April 1936, pp. 1 + 6; and 22 April 1936, pp. 1 + 3. 102.  The proposal was expected within the context of the designs for

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the courthouse extension. Proposals were then circulating to have sculpture as an essential part of all public buildings. On proposals in 1936 for an Artistic Advisory Board, see GHT, 2 December 1936, p. 10; also Ragnar Josephson, “Konstrådet,” GHT, 4 December 1936, p. 3. Concerning the placement of architectural sculpture in this period, see Örn, I rummets kraftfält, 42–47. 103.  Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 311. 104.  Erixson, “Arkitekterna och konsten.” For a discussion of the debate prompted by Erixson’s article, see Örn, I rummets kraftfält, 42–44. 105.  “Som ‘ämne’ för skulpturen ha kommittén inga direktiv. Det viktiga synes vara, att skulpturen blir ett gott konstverk med allmänmänskligt allvar. Ansträngd och svårbegriplig symbolik bör i varje fall undvikas. En justitiafigur finnes redan på gamla rådhusets fasad.” RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 14 March 1936. See also ARKM 88-02-​D6600. 106.  Ibid., 1935–37, E1:2, letter dated 16 June 1936. 107.  At the Karl Johan School (inaugurated in 1925) Johnsson created a classicizing relief sculpture in the pediment representing “The Family Brought to the Goddess of Enlightenment.” Created in roughly modeled brick, the sculpture was well adapted to the building (also in brick) and to the working-​class neighborhood of Majorna. 108.  At this time there was no state organization for the provision of art for public buildings. Not until 1937 did the government set up the State Art Council, which devoted a percentage of building costs to art. See Stensman, “Konsten är på väg att bliva allas.” See also Hedström, “Modernism and Public Art.” One problem faced by the building committee was lack of public support for the courthouse-​extension project. For example, compare the restricted professional membership of the building committee at the courthouse extension to that of Nils Einar



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Eriksson’s concert hall, well stocked with politicians and industrialists; see Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 593. The competition process for the concert hall (1931) allowed the committee to choose the architect and work with him on the design; in the case of the courthouse extension, the competition, two decades earlier, occurred when the breakthrough of modernism in Sweden was a long way in the future. 109.  The committee made the request on 8 June 1936; see RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1. 110.  Nothing explicitly states that the Lindberg Foundation had run out of patience with Asplund, but see, in RSG, Kommittén för Charles Felix Lindbergs donationsfond, handlingar, 1923–1934, F.V.3, the letters of 18 March 1924, 4 March 1926, 13 August and 23 September 1929. The latter pair are requests to Asplund to reply to earlier letters. In earlier discussions, Asplund expressed his displeasure at the site chosen for the flagpoles. 111.  Mindful of the dangers of building everything in Tessin style, he was equally concerned that Swedish cities should not look like “nybyggarstäder i Klondyke” (settler cities in the Klondike). Romdahl, Det monumentala sinnelaget, 19. 112.  Romdahl, “Reagera,” 123. 113. Romdahl, Göteborg: En minnesbok från Jubileumsutställningens stad, 23–24. (This book has two editions. See also under the title Göteborg och utställningen: Bilder och dagar [Gothenburg: Medéns, 1923].) Romdahl’s support of Gothenburg’s artistic traditions (architectural and artistic) was consistent. See also GHT, 3 February 1928, p. 3. 114.  GMP, 28 October 1936, p. 7. 115.  Charles Felix Lindberg Foundation to the Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, 10 July 1937 (ARKM 88-02-​D864). 116.  “Beträffande Ivar Johnssons skulptur bör prisnämndens utlåtande citeras. Det bör fram hållas att skulpturens ‘dubbelkolonn’—​verkan är för plats alldeles förträfflig och väl

sammanbinder den nya fasaden med den gamla kolonnportiken. Det bör också sägas att skulpturen ju icke avser att realistisk skildra vad som försiggår inom rådhuset utan snarare utgör en motsättning genom införande av den mänskliga godheten. Arkitekten har berörande denna sida av saken framhållit att ‘lika väl som djävulen är avbildad i våra gamla kyrkors bildvärlds, lika väl kan godhetens symbol förvara sin plats på en domstolbyggnad’ ” (ARKM 88-02-​D5839). The letter by Asplund is undated and to an unspecified recipient. 117.  Asplund provides the height of the sculpture in a letter to Lindberg, dated 15 April 1937, estimating the cost of the work (ARKM 88-02-​D5821). 118.  Handelstidningen, no special friend to Asplund, thought Romdahl might have taken offense when the Rådhusbyggnadskommittén referred to Gustaf Adolf square as the city’s foremost public space rather than acknowledge the superiority of Götaplatsen, where Romdahl had been the significant player. See GHT, 28 January 1936, p. 4. 119. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, 12 October 1936. See also newspaper accounts, for example, GHT, 13 April 1937, p. 10. The proposed light fixtures would have been between the first and second stories. Asplund became depressed about the likelihood of adding this lighting, as he revealed in a letter to Stendhal, 4 May 1937. He preferred to wait for a directive from the Rådhusbyggnadskommittén rather than press a proposal himself. See ARKM 88-02-​D5823. 120.  Asplund to Nyborg, 9 October 1936 (ARKM 88-02-​D3998). 121.  Asplund wanted Gothenburg’s coat of arms in the first window; for windows two through four, images of seafaring, the seaman’s life, and boat launching, possibly an industrial activity or perhaps even a recognizable Gothenburg scene (ARKM 88-02-​ D3989). In March 1937 a proposal, rejected by the architect, also reached the Lindberg Foundation for a monumental painting to decorate the new

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entry hall in Asplund’s courthouse extension; see Göteborgs Konstnärsklubb to the Lindberg Foundation, 1 March 1937. 122.  Asplund met with the electricity company by 12 October 1936, as noted in RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 12 October 1936. 123.  Asplund (in Gothenburg) to the Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, 10 June 1937 (ARKM 88-022-​D849). 124.  Romdahl and Henning Beyer (for the Lindberg Foundation) to the Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, 10 July 1937 (ARKM 88-022-​D864). 125. Rådhusbyggnadskommittén to the city council, 23 August 1937 (ARKM 88-022-​D871). See also RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 23 August 1937; Asplund to Gustaf Rundberg, 31 August 1937 (ARKM 88-02-​D5840). 126.  The decision was taken on 28 October 1937 (see RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, handlingar till protokollen, 1937– 40, E:3, folder dated 18 December 1937). For a reports of the debate, see GT, 29 October 1937, p. 3; GP, 29 October 1937, p. 6; and GMP, 29 October 1937, p. 14. 127.  See Grate to Asplund, 26 February 1938, and Asplund’s memorandum to the Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, 31 March 1938. Concerning the on-​site mock-​up, see Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, 13 June 1935. (All sources in RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, handlingar till protokollen, 1937–40, E:3.) 128.  Asplund to Bernhard Lindberg, 30 October 1939; Lindberg’s reply to Asplund, 10 November 1939 (ibid.). 129.  Asplund to Bernhard Lindberg, 14 August 1940 (ibid.). 130. RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 8 June 1936, § 247. 131.  GHT, 7 September 1939, p. 7.

Chapter 3

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1.  Reilly, “Town Hall Problem,” 114.

2.  Bergeijk and Meurs, Town Hall, Hilversum. 3.  See Favier, “Le nouvel hôtel de ville de Cachan,” the reference to Dudok on 489. 4.  “Greenwich Town Hall.” 5.  H. Hahr, “Arkitekten som tänker i betong.” Piacentini, Architettura d’oggi, 44. 6.  Dudok, “Toelichting bij het ontwerp voor en Raadhuis te Leiden,” 273. 7.  Ibid., 278. 8.  Giedion, “Need for a New Monumentality,” 558. 9. Frampton, Le Corbusier, 81–82. On the nature of classicism as represented in the League of Nations competition, see Jacques Gubler, “L’idea di classicismo nel concorso per il palazzo della Società delle Nazioni a Ginevra, 1927,” in Ciucci, Classicismo, classicismi, 106–19. 10.  Giedion, “Need for a New Monumentality,” 558. 11. Boyer, Le Corbusier, 377–92. 12.  Le Corbusier, Une maison—​un palais, 53. 13.  Ibid., 52. 14.  Ibid., 78. 15.  Morizet, quoted in Le Gallo, “Une mairie moderne,” 99. 16.  Morizet is quoted in Foucart, “La mairie de Boulogne-​Billancourt,” 255. Foucart’s reference to “Jansén­ isme” is on 264. 17.  Zahar, “La mairie de Boulogne-​ Billancourt,” 376. 18.  Morizet, “Boulogne-​ Billancourt,” 7. 19.  “Pour les administrateurs de la Cité se sera un excellent instrument de travail, une machine aux organes souple et bien équilibrés.” Sée, “Le nouvel hôtel de ville de Boulogne-​Billancourt,” 120. Comparable language was used to describe Petre Antonescu’s city hall in Bucharest, Romania. See “Projet pour le Palais municipal de Bucarest,” 25. 20.  Quoted in Foucart, “La mairie de Boulogne-​Billancourt,” 255. 21.  On its influence on literature, see Axel Strindberg, Människor mellan krig. 22. Rosenthal, New Myth, New World, 406.

23.  I am summarizing lines in Clark, Moscow, the Fourth Rome, 112. 24.  Quoted in Golomstock, Totalitarian Art, 278. 25.  Taesler, “Bostadsbyggandet i Sovjetunionen,” 221–23. 26.  See the debate between Marcello Piacentini, Giuseppe Pagano, and others reproduced in Patetta, L’architettura in Italia, 275–312. 27.  See his speech on the occasion of the visit of delegates sponsored by L’architecture d’aujourd’hui, 27 September 1935. “Quand je parle d’architecture, il est naturel que je parle d’architecture moderne. Je vais encore plus loin, je parle de l’architecture fonctionnelle.” Mussolini, “Discours de Son Excellence,” 31. 28.  See Ciucci, Gli architetti e il fascismo, 115. 29.  Ghirardo, “Italian Architects and Fascist Politics,” 120. 30.  There was much to be said for a work like Giuseppe Terragni’s Casa del Fascio in Como (1932–36), which, had he known it (and there is no evidence that he did), would have provided Asplund with an example of a governmental “house” (in the terms understood by Le Corbusier). Moreover, though its message would have been repugnant to Asplund, Terragni’s building told its novel political story in comparably imaginative ways. 31.  Streamlined windows in the manner of Dudok appeared in the prize-​winning entry of Jobst Seidler for the addition to the Reich Chancellery in Berlin in 1927. In the competition for the Justice Building in Berlin (1928) a number of entries, including those of the Luckhardt brothers, Rudolph Ullrich, Gustav Lüdecke, and Edmund Meurin, among others, had a distinctly modernist cast. The most advanced—​but at the same time the most conservative—​ German architect was Fritz Höger (1877–1949). In works such as the town hall in Rüstringen, now Wilhelmshaven (1928–29), he employed traditional north German building materials (brick) in an expressionist manner. The emphasis on materials (not to mention Höger’s “blood-and-​soil” politics) must have looked old-​fashioned to Asplund.

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32. Seeger, Öffentliche Verwaltungsgebäude, 14. 33.  Ibid., 82–87. 34.  SvD, 18 January 1933, p. 13. 35. See SvD, 24 January 1933, p. 3, and coverage of the visit, 26–29 January 1933. 36.  “Det säges för övrigt klart ifrån: vad nytt har denna utställning visat oss? Inga nya byggnader, inga nya arkitekter, men ett nytt namn—​Hitler.” Ahlberg, “Den tyska arkitekturutställningen,” 18. 37.  Sundbärg, “Fackmännens neutralitet,” 101. The article provoked a debate. The entire series comprises the original Sundbärg essay and four additional contributions to Byggmästaren in 1933, all with the title “Till frågan om fackmännens politiska neutralitet,” alternately by Tage William-​Olsson and Sundbärg, composing a dialogue of sorts. 38.  Sundbärg, “Kulturdokument ur tyska arkitekturtidskrifter.” 39.  I am echoing Asplund’s own comments: “Dessa stora fönster ligga inte mitt i den nya fasaden utan närmare torgsidans centrum och markera på sitt sätt, att sträckningens tyngdpunkt och huvudbalans ligger i det gamla huset, som därmed ytterligare framhäves.” GHT, 26 October 1936, p. 6. 40.  Claims have been made that Asplund employed the golden section to structure the organization of the façade and plan. Landzelius, “Dis­[re]­ mem­bering Spaces,” 436–42. None of the surviving drawings suggests that Asplund used proportional rules to develop the building design: the eye was everything. 41.  Svartengren, “Mot farsoten!” 42.  Ahlberg, “Gunnar Asplund Architect,” 58. 43.  See the discussion of the modernized bell in relation to labor in Hansen, “Modernity as Action,” 312–19. 44.  For the relation between mechanical metaphors and political thought, see Otto Mayr, Authority, Liberty, and Automatic Machinery in Early Modern Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986).



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Clocks are a Swedish scientific tradition going back to the time of Christopher Polhem (1661–1751). Asplund used a similar design for the clock in the State Bacteriological Laboratory in Solna, a comparison that underlines the scientific character of his design here. 45.  Treib, “Stalking Significance,” 119. These elements speak of modernity, but their disposition around the interior piazza recalls Asplund’s earlier devotion to the planning principles of Camillo Sitte. 46.  See Wigforss, Skrifter i urval, 5:108–11. See also Tilton, “Utopia,” 47. 47.  After all, evidence is on the table from the beginning; normally the defense counsel will undertake no independent investigation, and the list of witnesses will be known in advance. A typical trial looks mostly like a bureaucratic exchange in which the authorities pass papers back and forth to one another. “Since the parties are under a mutual obligation to disclose their evidence in advance, big surprises during the trial are very rare.” Quotation from Andenaes, “Legal Framework,” 11. For judges’ accounts of the nature of trials in this period, see the autobiographical reflections of retired judges, such as Elliot, Ur en domares liv; Guldberg, En domare ser tillbaka, 66–67; Quensel, Minnesbilder, 152–53. Elliot recalls the tradition of the Scandinavian ting (governing assembly) and reminds readers that law can be conducted in the open air. Could that thought have occurred to Asplund? Elliot describes a meeting with a visitor to the court who is pleased to find that judges are just like ordinary people (Ur en domares liv, 228–29). 48.  On the issue of oral versus written testimony, see Engströmer, “Muntlighet och fri bevisprövning.” 49.  The text is found as part of the introduction, “Several General Rules, in Which a Judge Shall Always Search for the Right.” See Sveriges rikes lag, xxiii. 50.  For example, see the memoirs of Nils Quensel, Minnesbilder, 152–63, who recalls “the old days” (i.e., 1920s)

when the judge had the entire judicial process in his hands. Quensel laments some of the changes that had, over the years, reduced the judge’s powers. 51.  On the oath a person swears on the Bible, see Almquist, “Med hand å bok.” 52. Rudberg, Stockholm Exhibition 1930, 200–201. 53.  Organized on the rug by profession, the list of initials and their probable identities are found in Caldenby, “Rådhuset och tiden,” in Caldenby, Asplunds rådhus i Göteborg, 28. 54.  See Mawby, Writers and Politics, and P. Graves, “Collective Novel in Sweden.” See also Axel Strindberg, Människor mellan krig. 55.  This issue has been handled by political scientists. See, for example, Lasswell, Signature of Power; Milne, “Architecture, Politics, and the Public Realm”; Goodsell, “Architecture of Parliaments”; and Goodsell, Social Meaning of Civic Space. 56.  “Hur uppfattar ni arkitektens uppgift i samhället?” Arkitektur och samhälle 4 (1933): 6. 57.  The line appears in answer to a critic who thought the building inappropriate for a courthouse, since visitors would be self-​absorbed, downcast, and ill at ease. Asplund, “Det nya rådhuset,” 53–55. 58.  “Jag mår illa när jag hör talas om brottets mystik. En blå sommardag och ett Bachpreludium kan vara fulla av mystik.” Ett brott, act 1, scene 1, in Siwertz, Två tidsdramer, 12. Ett brott (The crime) ran for thirty-​eight performances from 13 October 1933. See Teater i Göteborg, 2:164. 59.  One criticism, by Åhrén, was that the entry door was “som i vilken hotellvestibul som helst” (like some kind of hotel vertibule). Åhrén, “Tillbyggnaden av Göteborgs rådhus,” 214. 60.  Roberts, “On Aristocratic Constitutionalism,” 41–42. 61.  Uno Åhrén may have alluded to that tradition when he criticized Asplund’s courthouse extension for its aristocratic feeling. “Now one can perhaps say that Asplund’s disposition is, in any case, not truly so democratic. He even has something aristocratic in

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everything that he does.” Åhrén, “Tillbyggnaden av Göteborgs rådhus,” 218. 62.  On the history of Swedish law, see Inger, Svensk rättshistoria; Bruzelius and Thelin, Swedish Code of Judicial Procedure; and Anners and Wallén, Svensk straffrättshistoria. 63.  Interview with Uno Åhrén, Ny tid, 21 September 1932, p. 4. 64.  See, for example, Mats Deland, “The Social City: Middle-​Way Approaches to Housing and Suburban Governmentality in Southern Stockholm, 1900–1945” (Ph.D. diss., University of Stockholm, 2001). 65.  See Engman, “Socialdemokratisk första maj i Stockholm.” 66.  Trägårdh, “Statist Individualism.” 67.  See, for example, the conventional definitions in the Svenska Akademiens ordbok, accessed 7 July 2009, http://​g3​.spraakdata​.gu​.se/​saob. 68. Romdahl, Det monumentala sinnelaget, 10. 69.  Paulsson, “Ny monumentalitet,” 103–4. 70.  Paulsson goes on to suggest that decentralization is the most appropriate urban tactic. Ibid., 100. 71.  August Strindberg, “Rättvisans klor eller domstolslogik,” Aftontidningen, 11 September 1910. Reproduced in August Strindberg, Samlade skrifter, 53:215, 217. 72. Thyrén, Straffrättens allmänna grunder, 56. 73. Sundell, Karl Schlyter, 156. 74.  See also novels such as Martin Koch’s Guds vackra värld: En historia om rätt och orätt (Stockholm: Bonnier, 1916). Bjerre undertook a study of Fyodor Dostoevsky (Forum, 1921). 75. Kinberg, Basic Problems of Criminology, 71. Kinberg lectured at Göteborgs högskolan (the university) on 9 December 1933. See Göteborgs högskolas årsskrift 40 (1934): 53. 76. Qvarsell, Utan vett och vilja. 77.  Activists such as Ebbe Linde had raised these issues; see Linde, Brott och straff. 78.  Blackmail had been used with special cruelty toward homosexuals. 79. Sundell, Karl Schlyter, 72–78. For commentary, see H. Lindberg,

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“Avfolka fängelserna.” The party advertised the speech heavily; see Social-​ demokraten, 1 December 1934, p. 11, and succeeding days. 80. Sundell, Karl Schlyter, 73–74. Kinberg, Basic Problems of Criminology, 402–4, suggests that more attention needs to be devoted to the architectural spaces in prison, and advocates a new emphasis on “food, light, and air, ” noting that “bad tendencies cannot be talked away by lessons in morals” (403). Schlyter and Asplund may have met in 1938, when both traveled to the United States for the celebrations of the three-hundredth anniversary of the Swedish settlement at New Delaware. 81.  Schlyter to Hardy Göransson, quoted in Sundell, Karl Schlyter, 74. 82.  Danielsson, “Dompsykologi och rättegångsreform,” 12. 83.  For a discussion of the Social Democrats and the law around 1933, see Qvarsell, “Land skall med lag byggas,” 191–22. 84.  The speech, “Land skall med lag byggas,” is reproduced in Hansson, Demokrati, 107–13. 85.  Ibid., 108. 86.  Professions of loyalty to Sweden, Swedish traditions, and the Swedish flag are common in the Social Democratic press. See, for one example among many, the poem “Vårt rike” by John O. Ericsson in Social-​ demokraten, 28 October 1936, p. 13. “We are the people / to whom freedom and the future belong / and Sweden is the great home / our love creates.” 87.  Hansson, “Land skall med lag byggas,” in Demokrati, 111. 88. Ibid. 89.  See Oredsson, Gustav II Adolf, 352. 90.  The Royal Library in Stockholm notes almost forty publications during the year 1932, including editions of Ahnlund’s biography (Gustav Adolf den store) and the book by Anna Maria Roos for children (Gustaf II Adolf hans liv och bragder, berättade för barn och ungdom). A major exhibition on his life and work was also held in Stockholm. 91.  See, for example, Westman, “Gustaf Adolfsminnet.”

92.  Arvidson, “Reaktionerna,” 14. 93.  Nyström, “Gustav Adolf,” 13. 94. Frankl, Principles of Architectural History, 157–58. 95.  See Constant, Woodland Cemetery, 21–22, 134–35. 96.  Mårtelius, “Bibliotek.” 97.  Acking thought this ability to link intellectual and emotional experience one of Asplund’s special gifts; see Acking, “Artist and Professional,” 19. 98.  Giedion, “History and the Architect,” 57. 99.  Schmarsow, “Essence of Architectural Creation,” 287–88. 100.  Ibid., 291. 101.  For Asplund the inverted space of the Cubists seems to have no special resonance. On the other hand, successive spatial experiences are important for Asplund as symbols gain importance from new angles. 102.  Schmarsow, “Essence of Architectural Creation,” 285. 103.  Ibid., 286. 104.  Acking, “Asplund as Architectural Psychologist,” 109. 105.  See Winter, “Den italienska resan,” and Ortelli, “Heading South.” 106.  Sedlmayr was not alone in defining the idea of the baroque harmonization of space. See, for example, Weingartner, Der Geist des Barock, 14–15, and Escher, Barock und Klassizismus, 60–86. 107. Giedion, Spätbarocker und romantischer Klassizismus, 89. Leibniz actually wrote (in English translation): “Now this connexion or adaptation of all created things with each, and of each with all the rest, means that each simple substance had relations which express all the others, and that consequently it is a perpetual living mirror of the universe.” Leibniz, “Monadology,” 187. 108.  Leibniz, “Monadology,” 187–88. 109.  Acking, “Asplund as Architectural Psychologist,” 109. 110.  Capturing multiple perspectives was the special task that Cubism set itself in the early years of the twentieth century. Novels and film had less difficulty with this task. See, for example, the discussion of the work

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of Marcel Proust and James Joyce in Kern, Culture of Time and Space, 148–49. 111.  The washbasin inside the entry hall of Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye is a comparable device. 112.  Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 291. On the hill at Woodland Cemetery, Lewerentz (and Asplund) progressively lowered the risers on the steps leading to the Meditation Grove from the north, easing one’s passage to the summit. 113.  Acking, “Asplund as Architectural Psychologist,” 109. Acking describes the stairs as follows: “Every architect knows the ancient formula for constructing a staircase: twice the height of the step + the depth of step = 60–63 cm. Ordinary staircases for domestic and other purely practical purposes can be conveniently designed according to this formula. If, true to the formula, a 12.5 cm. rise is accompanied by a depth of 37 cm. the stairs will still be a pleasurable experience, but are more a matter of gliding than normal walking.” At the courthouse extension, Asplund reduced “the rise to 11 cm. and the depth to 35 cm.” Acking, “Artist and Professional,” 19. 114.  The Swedish legal system did allow for one dramatic moment, the decisory oath, when a party might request his or her adversary to assert or deny under oath a determinative fact in the case. This key moment made witnesses into potential participants. See Orfield, Growth of Scandinavian Law, 287. 115.  E. Cornell, “The Sky as a Vault,” 97. 116.  See F. Schmidt, “Uppsala School of Legal Thinking”; Källström, Värdenihilism och vetenskap; Källström, Den gode nihilisten; and Hansson and Nordin, Ernst Cassirer. 117. Mindus, Real Mind. See also Hansson and Nordin, Ernst Cassirer, 135–74. 118.  The degree of Hägerström’s responsibility for the first articulation of this theory has been debated; see Sandin, “Founding of the Uppsala School.”



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119. Mindus, Real Mind, 142–44. See also 142n31. 120. Olivecrona, Law as Fact, 16. 121.  At one point Olivecrona, using a modernist analogy, compares the legislative machinery required to transform words into law to a power plant that converts the energy of the river into electricity. “The power-​lines are the particular laws, promulgated according to the constitution. The significance of the act of legislating is that a new power-​line is attached to the power plant.” Ibid., 57. 122.  Ibid., 152–53. 123.  “Jag N.N. lovar och svär, vid Gud och hans heliga evangelium, att jag ska vittna och giva tillkänna allt, vad jag vet i denna sak hänt och sant vara, så att jag ej något förtiger, tillägger eller förändrar; så sant mig Gud hjälpe till liv och själ.” See, for example, the inside cover of Sveriges rikes lag (1932). 124.  In a lecture delivered in 1926, the former conservative prime minister and law professor Ernst Trygger (1857–1943) noted society’s decreasing belief in authority: “It is therefore more necessary than before that the outer appearance of power be based on strong inner authority.” Asplund’s design also embodied this concern. See Trygger, “Domaren och hans uppgift,” 2. 125.  For the comments of Oscar Dahlbäck, see Yttranden av häradshövdingar, 243–48. 126.  Ibid., 23–42 (Edgar Wieslander), 103–4 (N. Edling). 127. Elliot, Ur en domares liv, 288. 128. H. Cornell, Karakteriseringsproblemet i konstvetenskapen, 121. 129.  For example, Montelin, “Ett tidsporträtt.” 130.  Åhrén, “Tillbyggnaden av Göteborgs rådhus,” 218. 131.  The first translation of Simmel into Swedish occurred in the 1970s, though a Norwegian study of Simmel was published in 1938. 132. Simmel, Sociology of Georg Simmel, 189. 133. Simmel, Philosophy of Money, 114. 134.  Segerstedt, “Customs and Codes ii,” 132.

135. Simmel, Philosophy of Money, 103. The term has something in common with Kierkegaard, for whom guilt can only be measured against the absolute. 136. Kinberg, Basic Problems of Criminology, 127. 137.  Ibid., 141. 138.  Petzäll, “Contribution to the Problem of the Sentiment of Guilt,” 267. Petzäll was a professor at Göteborgs högskola (later Gothenburg University) and the key connection in Sweden for Ernst Cassirer. 139.  Ibid., 280. 140.  Acking argues that Asplund operated intuitively to understand the relations as expressed in buildings. See Acking, “Asplund as Architectural Psychologist,” 110: “A couple of years after the death of Asplund some of his students in remembrance of his work and his way of analyzing architecture in relation to man became interested in and started to work in more scientific researches and call it architecture-​ psychology. For me the inspiration came from Asplund. . . . Even if he never thought of doing research his way of thinking and feeling gave occasion for me to establish contact with people working at other faculties.”

Chapter 4

1.  “Town Hall Described,” supplement, Hornsey Journal, 8 November 1935, p. 3. 2.  Bergeijk and Meurs, Town Hall, Hilversum, 25. 3.  Reilly, “Town Hall Problem,” 113. Reilly was not alone in his interest in this subject. In 1936 the Architects’ Journal ran a series of articles concerning the planning issues around town halls and law courts, essays later collected in a single volume, Cotton, Town Halls. The journal editors do note, however, that they hope their advice will lead town-​hall planning “away from the imitative towards the more thoughtfully and progressively original” (Cotton, Town Halls, 8). 4.  Extensively reported in Le moniteur, April and May 1935. For a discussion, see http://​www​.breillot​ .com/​article​-le​-scandale​-des​-briques​

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-a​-cachan​-112271986​.html (accessed 12 August 2013). 5.  The Greenwich Town Hall received only the sketchiest coverage in the local papers. 6.  “Norwich City Hall,” 202. 7.  Leitenstorfer, in Beblo, Leitenstorfer, and Knorr, Das technische Rathaus, 21. 8.  The work of Landzelius, “Dis­ [re]­mem­bering Spaces,” has served as my guide to the study of the reception of Asplund’s courthouse extension. We have used the same source material, and I have frequently profited from his references, which have often enabled me to go straight to a source rather than read all the newspapers chronologically. Where we quote the same source, I have retranslated the original, sometimes with differing emphasis. 9.  Landzelius counted 146 separate items published in ten daily newspapers across the political spectrum (“Dis­[re]­mem­bering Spaces,” 30). On Gothenburg newspapers and their political breakdown, see ibid., 34–37. On the Swedish press in this period, see Jarlbrink, Det våras för journalisten, and Lundström, Rydén, and Sandlund, Den svenska pressens historia, vol. 3. 10.  Ahlberg, “Gunnar Asplund Architect,” 72. 11.  GHT, 22 October 1936, p. 2. 12. On Segerstedt’s life, see Fant, Torgny Segerstedt. On the politics of Forum and Bonnier, see Gedin, Litteraturens örtagårdsmästare, 358. 13. For Segerstedt’s opinions, see the collections of his columns: Händelser och människor; Ur spalterna; I dag. 14.  Torgny Segerstedt, “Partier och människor,” 23 June 1928, reprinted in Segerstedt, Ur spalterna, 63–67. See also Johnson, Ett porträtt av Torgny Segerstedt. 15.  Segerstedt sought to make Handelstidningen a model for other newspapers. See Fant, Torgny Segerstedt, 91–92. 16. Gerhard, Om jag inte minns fel, 159. 17.  From “Göteborgs stad,” originally printed in 1938, reprinted in Segerstedt, I dag, 349.

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18.  On objectionable changes in Gothenburg, see GHT, 23 March 1919, p. 10; for Romdahl on Gustaf Adolf square, see GHT, 16 December 1926, p. 12; for Birger Bäckman on Kämpebron, see GHT, 16 September 1925, p. 11. Also, on Götaplatsen, see the editorial “Svepskål” (Subterfuge), GHT, 9 October 1924, p. 10, and two long pieces on Götaplatsen by “–st” (possibly Östberg?) with support for the older, softer style of urban planning, GHT, 29 January 1929, p. 10, and 31 January 1929, p. 12. Östberg was also the architect to the Bonnier family and may have been brought to Segerstedt by Karl Otto Bonnier. See Gedin, Litteraturens örtagårdsmästare, 320. Also Segerstedt in I dag, GHT, 4 February 1936, p. 11. 19.  The coverage of the concert hall in GHT was extensive (see 5 October 1935). 20.  On the Lorensberg Theater, see I dag, GHT, 15 January 1938, p. 13; on Järntorget, I dag, GHT, 13 April 1938, p. 13. 21.  Gothenburg University Library, Professor Torgny Segerstedts samling, 159:22. 22.  On Knut Ström, see, in Ek and Ringby, “Göteborgs Stadsteater,” the subsection “Knut Ström och scentekniken,” 267–73. On Bjurström, see Sommar, Skimra i luft och ljus. Wikander-​Brunander wrote extensively on sex education for children and was a friend of Segerstedt’s. See, for example, Ärliga svar på tysta frågor: Upplysningar och råd till ungdomen i sexuella spörsmål (Stockholm: Norstedt, 1931) and Handledning för undervisare i sexualkunskap (Stockholm: Norstedt, 1935). 23.  GHT, 23 October 1936, p. 12. 24. Ibid. 25. Fahl, Göteborgs stadsfullmäktige 1863–1962, 2:358–59. The tax brochures were first issued in 1935, with editions until 1961. The textbooks were issued before 1930. 26.  GHT, 24 October 1936, p. 12. Less than six weeks later Asplund had to approach Romdahl to request paintings to hang on the walls of the new building. See Asplund to

Romdahl, 8 December 1936 (ARKM 88-02-​D5783). 27.  GHT, 24 October 1936, p. 12. 28.  Ibid. Munthe’s support for advanced architecture is problematic. I differ from Landzelius, “Dis­[re]­mem­ bering Spaces,” 398. At no point does Munthe say that he actually wishes Asplund had built a truly modernist building. Munthe’s criticism echoes with objections made by Gotthard Johansson about the dangers of blending modern and ancient styles. G. Johansson, Funktionalismens framtid, 19–32. 29.  GHT, 24 October 1936, p. 14. (See also the discussion in Landzelius, “Dis­[re]­mem­bering Spaces,” 263–64.) 30.  GMP, 24 October 1936, p. 1. 31.  See the letter from “Ts.” in GHT, 26 October 1936, p. 18, under the headline “Protest mot nya rådhuset.” See also the letters signed “Göteborgare,” “E.F.S.,” and “Defensor” in GHT, 27 October 1936, p. 15. 32.  “Håce,” writing the column Stan runt, in GT, 27 October 1936, p. 2. 33.  MT, 27 October 1936, p. 3. 34.  The key phrases: “Fullständigt knockoutad. Kors i herrans namn.” NT, 25 October 1936, p. 11. 35.  Ibid., pp. 1 + 11. 36.  GT, 27 October 1936, p. 2. 37.  NT, 25 October 1936, p. 11. 38.  Hans Asplund (1921–1994), Gunnar Asplund’s son, confuses dates when he recalls seeing a headline at a newsstand near Humlegården referring to the “disaster” of the Gothenburg Courthouse. He dates the “disaster” comment to 1939, but it must have been 1936. His father’s comment— “Well, well, and they call that a disaster, with so much happening all over the world”—​may still be accurate. Engfors, E. G. Asplund: Architect, Friend, and Colleague, 121. See NT, 25 October 1936, pp. 1 + 11. 39.  NT, 25 October 1936, pp. 1 + 11. 40.  GHT, 26 October 1936, p. 19. 41.  Ibid., p. 6. 42.  GHT, 30 October 1936, p. 2. 43.  This comment echoes a point made in acceptera when the English professor of archaeology is asked about his advanced, modern concrete

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villa and admits that, as a person engaged with the past, one can still like the modern. Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 292. 44.  GP, 23 October 1936, p. 13. 45.  GHT, 30 October 1936, p. 14. See the political analysis by Landzelius, “Dis­[re]­mem­bering Spaces,” 132–48. 46.  NT, 30 October 1930, p. 18; GT, 30 November 1936, p. 4. 47.  See the motion in RSG, Drätselkammaren Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, protokoll, 1934–36, A1:1, meeting of 10 November 1936. 48.  Ibid. (ARKM 88-02-​D3863, Samuelsson letter, p. 4). 49.  Ibid. (also ARKM 88-02-​ D3863, Stendhal letter, p. 3). 50.  Asplund to Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, 2 December 1936 (ARKM 88-02-​D5744). 51.  The city council then moved on to assigning blame for the building. See GSH, Yttranden, 29 October 1936, 3. NT, 25 October 1936, pp. 1 + 11. Following an inquiry, the question of founding a preservation board to oversee city developments was again raised in the city council. See “The New Rådhus, an Ugly Spot Says Steen,” GMP, 9 April 1937, pp. 1 + 16. A previous, original proposal to establish a preservation board to oversee city developments had died within the city council after a public debate. Conservatives were undermined by the opposition of Axel Romdahl; the left-​wing councilors opposed the proposal as “antiprogress.” The debate took place at the end of October and the beginning of November 1936. 52.  DN, 3 November 1936, p. 30. 53.  Åhrén’s opinion earned him sharp rebuke the next day from a commentator (“—​x.”) in the GHT, 4 November 1936, p. 12. This opinion, the writer suggested, proved how out of touch he was with the city where he worked! 54.  MT, 6 November 1936, p. 3. 55.  Asplund was a public personality as a result of his work at the Stockholm Exhibition. At the time of the exhibition the woman’s weekly Idun



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featured an article about Asplund and his wife, Gerda, “Hemma hos chefsarkitekten,” Idun, no. 23 (1930): 614–15. 56.  The term was applied fairly indiscriminately to behavior thought to be lower-middle-class—​the behavior of Mr. and Mrs. Medelsvensson. (Grönköping literally means “Greenmarket” and is based on the fact that so many towns in Sweden have the suffix “köping.”) 57.  DN, 4 November 1936, pp. 1 + 32 (quotation from 32). 58.  SvD, 4 November 1936, p. 4. In response, “Rimsaltet” offered a poetic reply entitled “The Fifth Note” in Göteborgs tidningen. In the final verse he noted: “Herr Asplund seeks now his sol / which will complete the composition / and turn Asplund into a new Tessin. / That will hardly be cheerful for the critics. / So full and strong Asplund’s music / resumes the recovered melody.” GT, 6 November 1936, p. 2. 59.  Perhaps Asplund recalled that this much-​loved eighteenth-​century music had been choreographed in a modern manner by Michael Fokine for Sergei Diaghilev in 1911, suggesting that tradition and modernity could mix successfully. Michael Fokine lived in Stockholm between 1913 and 1919 and was, perhaps, known to Asplund. 60.  SvD, 5 November 1936, p. 24. 61.  SvD, 4 November 1936, p. 10. 62.  DN, 5 November 1936, p. 14. 63.  NT, 8 November 1936, p. 5. 64. See NT, 20 November 1936, p. 4. Also MT, 20 November 1936, p. 9. 65.  NT, 20 November 1936, p. 4. 66.  GSH, Yttranden, 8 April 1937, no. 6, 8. For a brief summary of the discussions, see “Rådhustillbyggnaden i Göteborg,” Byggnadsvärlden 28 (1937): 187. The Communist councilors seem to have been largely silent on the aesthetics of the building. Landzelius, “Dis­[re]­mem­bering Spaces,” 177–79. 67.  The meditation on Gustav Adolfsdagen is especially suggestive given the date of the commentary (two weeks before the event in its scaled-​ back form). Siri Wikander-​Brunander, MT, 24 October 1936, p. 7. On Gustav Adolfsdagen (1936) newspapers

commented that the space was darker and quieter than in previous years. See GHT, 6 November 1936, p. 3. And the same complaint was repeated at Christmas—​with the hope that, in the future, ivy on the courthouse would make a suitable background for a Christmas tree. GHT, 16 December 1936, p. 12. 68.  The lack of serious aesthetic problems with the interior is underlined by the opinions of councilor Adolf Borén. Borén had the most passionately expressed negative opinions about the exterior. Concerning the interior, his most pointed objection seems to have been the use of high-​maintenance parquet flooring in spaces used by the general public. See GSH, Yttranden, 8 April 1937, no. 6, 3. 69.  GMP, 21 October 1940, p. 3. 70.  NT, 16 December 1936, p. 16. 71.  GHT, 26 October 1936, p. 10. 72.  GSH, Yttranden, 8 April 1937, no. 6, 3. 73.  GT, 9 October 1936, p. 1. 74.  See “Hipp.,” “Lustiga huset,” GHT, 20 November 1936, p. 14. 75.  “Fine Rugs on Marble Floor,” GT, 20 November 1936, p. 1. 76.  As reported under the headline “Rådhuspremiär” in GHT, 16 December 1936, p. 20. On final preparations, see also “Nya rådhuset tar emot i morgon,” GHT, 14 December 1936, p. 14. 77. See GHT, 9 December 1937, p. 14. 78.  GMP, 1 April 1937, pp. 1 + 3. 79.  GT, 9 April 1937, p. 3. 80.  GHT, 13 April 1937, p. 10. See also GSH, Yttranden, 8 April 1937, no. 6. 81.  I dag, GHT, 14 April 1937, p. 11. 82.  GSH, Yttranden, 8 April 1937, no. 6, 6. 83.  See the comments of councilman Ohlon, in ibid. For the crematorium competition, see GHT, 20 November 1936, p. 6. 84.  GT, 29 October 1937, p. 3. 85. Ibid. 86.  Ibid., p. 14. 87.  See ARKM 88-02-​ D5900HE. See also ARKM 88-02-​ D876. The letter from Lindberg to

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Asplund is also interesting for its critique of Asplund’s draft of the text for the commemoration booklet ultimately published. 88.  GHT, 20 May 1939. 89. See I dag columns, GHT, 14 April 1937, p. 11, and 15 January 1938, p. 13. 90.  Ragnar Josephson, “Funktionalisk estetik,” SvD, 3 January 1938, pp. 1 + 7. Asplund was not completely satisfied with the review. As he wrote to the architect Olle Sellman in Gothenburg, 4 January 1938 (ARKM 88-02-​D5864), thinking that Josephson had both “understood and misunderstood the building”: “Har du läst Sv. Dagbladet för i måndags där Ragnar Josephsson [sic] visade gott förstånd och missförstånd.” 91.  Åhrén, “Tillbyggnaden av Göteborgs rådhus.” Åhrén wrote to Asplund on 27 November 1938 (ARKM 88-02-​D5895), after accepting the assignment “in a moment of weakness.” Åhrén hoped that the editor would show Asplund the text before publication and that Asplund would advise him if there “was anything he had misunderstood,” and he promised not to write about the exterior. Asplund’s reply (29 November 1938, ARKM 88-02-​D5897) ignored the question of the appropriateness of Åhrén’s decision to review the building and offered help with photographs. 92.  Åhrén, “Tillbyggnaden av Göteborgs rådhus,” 218. 93.  Ibid., 214 and 216. 94.  Ibid., 218–19. 95.  See Asplund, “Det nya rådhuset,” 53, 55. 96.  Asplund, “Göteborgs rådhus.” That the most important Swedish review of architecture lacked a review of a significant building by a major architect is noteworthy, though not unique. 97.  This is a topic I explored in my Walter S. Cook Lecture at the NYU Institute of Fine Arts, “Gunnar Asplund’s Courthouse Extension in Gothenburg: The Ironies of Its History,” November 2012. Asplund’s humor was often self-​mocking and ironic.

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98.  “Skepsisen anammar ingen världsbild. Den lever i ett rum utan några väggar. Den har sin fasta punkt i det bräckliga något, som är dess eget jag.” Torgny Segerstedt, “Humor’s Religion,” GHT, 8 November 1933, in I dag, 17. 99. A. Hahr, Architecture in Sweden, 119. 100. Löfström, Ny svensk arkitektur, 100–101. 101. Grauers, Sweden, Ancient and Modern. 102.  Jacobson and Silow, Ten Lectures on Swedish Architecture. 103.  The quotations are from the English edition, Ahlberg, “Gunnar Asplund Architect,” 72. 104.  Gunnar Sundbärg, “Att bygga högt och att bygga lågt,” GHT, 22 October 1943, pp. 3 + 15. 105. Gunnar Sundbärg, “Hur tillbyggnaden till Göteborgs Rådhus projekterades,” GHT, 16 March 1944, p. 3, and 17 March 1944, p. 3. 106.  Rasmussen was fascinated with Asplund’s use of light (“the effect is incredibly beautiful”) and noted the way Asplund had created a compassionate modernity, quoting a line from Mozart’s Magic Flute. A visitor to the courthouse might have to wait, but “in these sacred halls vengeance is unknown [in German]. He gets a comfortable wicker chair to sit in and look at the beautiful plants in the large windows facing the peaceful courtyard. There is no hardness or sharp edge. . . . Gothenburg’s courthouse isn’t just a fine piece of architecture but a beautiful humane building where you feel the architect has done the right thing not just for those who work in it but for people who pass through.” Rasmussen, “Raadhuset i Göteborg,” 144. The German quotation is the title of an aria from Mozart’s Zauberflöte. (I am grateful to Madeleine Duggan, Millbrook, N.Y., for translation from the Danish.) 107. Gunnar Sundbärg, “Hur tillbyggnaden till Göteborgs Rådhus projekterades, ii,” GHT, 17 March 1944, p. 3. 108. See GHT, 3 December 1946, p. 11. See also GP, 21 October 1940, p. 2; GHT, 21 October 1940, p. 2; NT, 21 October 1940, p. 12.

109. E. Lindberg, Författarnas Göteborg, 65.

Chapter 5

1.  See, for example, Thomas J. Anton, “No Place to Hide: Political Skill and the Social Psychology of Consensus,” chap. 8 in Administered Politics. 2.  “Vad man än har för uppfattning om den bortgångnes arkitektoniska skapelser kan man inte frånkänna dem originalitet. Reaktionen mot 1800-​tals imiterande byggnadsstilar drev honom till ytterligheter och detta var hans fel.” GMP, 21 October 1940, p. 3. 3.  Hansson’s speech is discussed by Tilton, Political Theory of Swedish Social Democracy, 126–27. 4.  Chairman of its board was Johannes Hellner, president of the Supreme Court; honorary president was the crown prince (later King Gustaf VI Adolf ); vice president was J. E. Sachs, managing director of Nordiska kompaniet, the city’s foremost department store. 5.  Quoted in Rudberg, Stockholm Exhibition, 188; for further comments, see 190. See also DN, 19 May 1930, pp. 1 + 5. 6.  Quotations in Rudberg, Stockholm Exhibition, 189. See also the collage of quotations assembled by Pred, “Pure and Simple Lines.” On the redefinition of “Swedishness” by the organizers of the exhibition, see Mattsson, “Funktionalismen och den svenska traditionen.” 7.  Among the signatories were Malmsten, Nils Palmgren, Elsa Gullberg, Estrid Ericson, Nils Fougstedt, Märta Afzelius, Yngve Berg, Carl Milles, Carl Bergsten, Alf Munthe, Märta Måås-​Fjetterström, and Ragnar Östberg. See SvD, 30 October 1930, pp. 3 + 18. 8.  Critical comments are embedded within Per G. Råberg’s celebratory account of the exhibition, Funktionalistiskt genombrott. For a contrasting account, see Pred, “Pure and Simple Lines.” For a contemporary estimate of the opposition, see Gotthard Johansson, “Har funktionalismen segrat?” in Funktionalismens framtid, 5–18.

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9.  See Paulsson, “Har man accepterat?” 92. Paulsson cites three pieces of evidence to support this point: the Gärdesstaden development in Stockholm, based on the plans of Arvid Stille (1929–36); the Maritime Museum, Stockholm, 1936–38 (Ragnar Östberg); Medborgarhuset, Stockholm, 1936–39 (Karl Martin Westerberg). 10. Rudberg, Stockholm Exhibition, 201. Gotthard Johansson, “Har funktionalismen segrat?” in Funktionalismens framtid, 14–18. 11.  What happened after the Stockholm Exhibition has been characterized as a “change of taste” or even a “retrenchment”; see Råberg, Funktionalistiskt genombrott, 223, 358. The competition brief for the Maritime Museum, won by Ragnar Östberg (1933–35), explicitly excluded functionalism. 12.  DN, 28 January 1933, p. 6. 13.  This issue underlies Lane, National Romanticism. See also Björn Linn in Caldenby, Lindvall, and Wang, 20th-​Century Architecture: Sweden, 13, and Rudberg, Stockholm Exhibition, 198. The architect Viking Göransson thought that functionalism had been more faithful to the national traditions than historicizing architecture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. “Funktionalism och nationalism,” Stockholms dagblad, 1 October 1930, p. 8. 14.  Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 291. 15. Viking Göransson saw no value to this form of compromise, as he expressed in an article entitled “Modererad funkis.” 16.  Rådhuset 50 år, 27. 17.  G. Johansson, “Saklig monumentalitet” (1935), in Kritik, 178–80, quotation from 180. 18.  As occurred, for example, in the competition for Medborgarhuset, Stockholm, which dragged on through the 1930s and produced a classicizing result. I have excluded this project from discussion since the typology of the “civic center” (as opposed to the town hall or law court) is entirely unclear. Nonetheless, see extensive



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discussions in Byggmästaren, no. 12 (1930): 207–14; no. 4 (1934): 52–55; no. 1 (1935): 2. Also G. Johansson, “Kompromissernas hus,” in Kritik, 181–84. 19.  Axel Strindberg, Tid i otakt, 83–84. 20.  See Sven-​Erik Vinge, “Funkishuset,” Fönstret, no. 45 (1931): 7. 21.  GP, 5 June 1930, p. 10. 22.  GT, 9 December 1932, p. 4. Viking Göransson referred critically to profitfunkis, as if it were a marketing term—​which it was. See Göransson, “Funktionalismen och samhället.” 23. Råberg, Funktionalistiskt genombrott, 182. 24.  GP, 22 December 1931, p. 4. 25.  See Åhrén, “Byggandet som konst och politik.” 26.  On the collective house, see Caldenby and Walldén, Kollektivhus: Sovjet och Sverige omkring 1930, and Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 212–17. 27.  See Gustaf Nyström, “Miniatyrfamiljen i storstaden,” Stockholms tidningen, 10 December 1932, p. 5. For press reaction, see Anne-​Marie Elmqvist, “En debatt om kollektivhus i det tidiga 1930-​talet: Den gifta kvinnan möter moderniteten” (B.A. thesis, Linköping University, Center for Gender Studies, 2006), accessed 4 April 2009, http://​urn​.kb​.se/​resolve​?urn​=​ urn:​nbn:​se:​liu:​diva​-8510. 28.  Laholmstidningen, 14 December 1932. 29.  SvD, 13 December 1932, pp. 3 + 24. 30.  DN, 29 October 1936, p. 1. 31.  Writing in 1933, Ole Övergaard was explicit: “During the last half year, the expression has lost its power as a slogan, and if it should survive it will stand as a mock reminder of the poorest type of ephemeral architecture without inner value.” See Övergaard, “Modern Norwegian Wood Architecture,” 218. 32. Rudberg, Stockholm Exhibition, 201. For a discussion of the conflicting currents of this debate, see Råberg, Funktionalistiskt genombrott, 231–33. 33.  “Balders Hage—​eller den lilla röda stugan invid sjön,” Social-​

demokraten, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 13 January 1931. The author of the story, Hugo Vahlberg (1896–1977), used the pseudonym “Dinar Annas.” 34.  The name Balders Hage (Balder’s Pasture) refers to a field originally used for sports but now part of the Liseberg amusement park, Gothenburg. Today, it is the site of Sweden’s largest roller coaster. 35.  “Balders Hage—​eller den lilla röda stugan invid sjön, 4: Kärlek och funkis,” Social-​demokraten, 8 January 1931, p. 6. 36.  This story preceded the appearance of a lengthy article dedicated to villa architecture entitled “Från lyxvillan till kolonistugan,” signed “H.,” which appeared in the Sunday special issue of Social-​demokraten, 11 January 1931, pp. i and vii. The article concludes that taste is a personal matter—​ a suitably ambiguous position. 37.  Röda dagen finishes with everyone coming together in brotherly love. The leading figure concludes with a folkish toast: “Vi kan gärna vara båda höger och socialdemokrater, fascister och bolsjeviker, men innerst inne sitter det i alla fall en liten svensk jäkel” (We may well be both right-​wing and Social Democrats, Fascists and Bolshevists, but deep inside in any case is a little Swedish devil). Furhammar, Filmen i Sverige, 148. 38.  Ernst Wigforss was a strong advocate of this position; see Bergström, “Party Program and Economic Policy,” 138–39. 39. Moberg, Sänkt sedebetyg, 66. This division continues in Giv oss jorden! 40. See Bergström and Edman, Folkhemmets museum. 41.  Ibid., 110. Curman describes the museums as “folkliga bildningsanstalter” (the people’s educational institutions) and a form of “varuhus” (department store). Asplund had built Bredenbergs, a Stockholm department store (1933–35). 42.  Curman, “Museibyggnader,” 37. 43.  Bergström and Edman, Folkhemmets museum, 114. 44.  On the commission for the cantata, see Hedwall, Hugo Alfvén,

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103–5, 307–12. For an account of the composition of the cantata and its reception as told by its composer, see Alfvén, Final, 177–89. 45.  See Selander, “Modernt.” 46.  Sten Selander, “På biblioteket,” in Dikter från tjugufem år, 128–39. 47. Kylhammar, Den okände Sten Selander, 21–22, distinguishes Selander’s lyric capacities from those of writers such as Artur Lundkvist or more overtly political writers such as Arnold Ljungdal. 48.  On the popularity of patriotic songs in the nineteenth century, see Enefalk, En patriotisk drömvärld. 49.  “Kantat,” in Selander, Dikter från tjugufem år, 207. 50.  Alfvén Conducts Alfvén, compact disc. See also Alfvén, Final, 181–85. Luther’s hymn is also quoted by Selander, “Sångens makt,” in Staden och andra dikter, 20–23. 51. Alfvén, Final, 189. 52.  That said, Gösta Nystroem, in his review in GHT, 3 December 1936, p. 19, had critical words for the work. 53.  See Munthe, “Göteborgs konsthantverkare,” 65. 54. See GHT, 16 May 1930, p. 11. The journalist notes that the aquarium and planetarium in Gothenburg are just a little bit better than those at the Stockholm Exhibition. 55.  See, for example, the article by “Aino” in GP, 16 May 1930, pp. 8 + 9. 56.  See the Axel L. Romdahl archive in the Manuscript Division at the Gothenburg University Library (Professor Axel Romdahls papper, H111). 57. See Forum: Frisinnad veckoskrift 2, no. 43 (23 October 1915): 516. For example, see Romdahl in GHT 5 April 1919, p. 4; 4 July 1923, p. 3; 7 July 1923, p. 3; 12 December 1926, p. 12; 16 June 1930, p. 3; 18 August 1930, p. 3. 58.  Romdahl, “Reagera.” The place of Axel Romdahl in the cultural history of Gothenburg merits its own study. Occasionally lampooned in the newspapers (see GT, 19 March 1922, p. 1), he not only had a significant position within the city but was well connected in Europe, as his letter archive in Gothenburg University Library proves.

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59.  Romdahl, “Reagera,” 122–23. 60.  Ibid., 121. 61.  MT, 4 December 1935, p. 3. 62.  This modest addition raised little comment; see GHT, 8 October 1936, p. 10. The museum’s own description refers to it as “a long open hall with large plate-​glass windows facing Chalmersgatan”; see Vår bostad: Röhsska konstslöjdmuseets permanenta utställning av modern svensk konstindustri (Gothenburg: Röhsska Museum, 1937), 3. Commentary in SvD by Ragnar Josephson was also favorable. See Röhsska konstslöjdsmuseets årstryck (1936): 35. 63.  In his review of the Thule Building in Byggmästaren, the architect Nils Ahrbom noted the special problem of using a commercial structure, with its needs for “representation and advertising,” to complete “the image of an old square of official festive character. That assignment is probably one of the most difficult and most rewarding an honest architect can get.” Ahrbom, “Thulehuset i Göteborg,” 9. The inauguration of the building took place on 11 November 1936. 64.  GMP, 2 June 1936, p. 6. 65.  GMP, 19 June 1936, p. 9. 66.  GP, 24 December 1931, p. 12. 67.  GP, 28 January 1935, p. 5. 68.  GMP, 29 August 1936, p. 9. In 1934 the city of Gothenburg took down a building just to the west of the Hotel Eggers and replaced it with a building that was “a more or less pronounced funkis building.” GP, 25 January 1934, p. 11. 69.  GP, 17 November 1934, p. 1 (Lördagsbilagan). “Huset är ritat av länsarkitekt E. G. Friberger i modernt betonad stil, men icke extremt funkis.” 70.  GP, 23 October 1936, p. 13. 71.  GT, 26 January 1935, p. 1. MT, 22 October 1936, p. 4. 72.  GT, 26 January 1935, p. 1. 73.  On the history of Kungsports­ avenyn, see Kjellin, Vid Avenyen. 74.  In the immediate vicinity of Avenyn are located Valand (the art school, begun in 1876), the Röhsska Museum (the city’s museum of decorative arts, completed in 1914), Gamla Chalmers (the original building of the

“industrial school,” completed in 1869), the School of Design and Crafts (Högskolan för design och konsthantverk, completed in 1904), and Lorensberg Theater (completed in 1916). 75.  See Kjellin, Vid Avenyen, 27. 76. Rudberg, Uno Åhrén, 130–57. Åhrén’s ideas about Gothenburg’s planning needs are set out in an interview with a journalist in NT, 9 December 1933. See also earlier reports—​for example, GP, 22 December 1931, p. 4—​on his lectures elsewhere. Ironically, given his belief in making the city congenial for wheeled traffic, Åhrén was injured in a traffic accident; see NT, 1 March 1934, p. 4. 77.  GP, 29 December 1931, p. 2. Åhrén’s principles had been enunciated clearly in “Byggandet som konst och politik.” 78.  GT, 12 December 1934, p. 1. 79.  For a general discussion of Götaplatsen, see Eva Eriksson, “Götaplatsen i Göteborg,” in Den moderna staden tar form, 194–99. See also Waern, Tävlingarnas tid. 80. G. Johansson, Trettiotalets Stockholm, 39–40. 81.  GT, 28 November 1934, p. 4. See also GHT, 25 August 1934, p. 8. Nils Olsson is all but forgotten today. In fact, he built a number of buildings along Avenyn, including numbers 14 (1938), 25 (1939), 33, 35, and the Royal cinema (1940). 82.  See Forssman, Stadsplanelagen jämte byggnadsstadgan; see also Hall, “Urban Planning in Sweden.” 83. See NT, 21 September 1935, p. 4. 84.  GT, 25 August 1934, p. 3. 85.  See all Gothenburg newspapers for 29 November 1934. 86.  GMP, 30 November 1934, p. 8. 87.  GT, 4 December 1934, pp. 1 + 5. 88.  GT, 5 December 1934, pp. 1 + 4. 89.  Gotthard Johansson, “Kungsportsavenyen—​en Göteborgssanering med Stockholmparalleller,” SvD, 5 December 1934, pp. 1 + 3. 90.  GT, 6 December 1934, pp. 1 + 4. 91.  GT, 13 December 1934, pp. 1 + 5. The discussion was taken up in other newspapers; see GP, 20 December 1934, p. 4.

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92.  Colomba, “Vy från Göteborg,” DN, 5 November 1936, p. 14. 93.  The certainty that the city theater would be complemented by the concert hall focused attention on what Göteborgs morgonpost called “problemet Götaplatsen.” “Kulturhem eller palats?” GMP, 4 April 1928, p. 6. 94.  For an overview of the history of the concert hall, see Caldenby, Göteborgs konserthus: Ett album. See also the discussion in Dyrssen, Musikens rum. 95.  Quoted by Kjellkvist, “Tävlingen om konserthus,” 181. 96.  The model for shaping the structure around acoustics was the recently rebuilt Salle Pleyel in Paris, completed in 1927 and then destroyed by fire in 1928; see Lindahl, “Salle Pleyel rediviva.” 97.  GHT, 5 October 1935, p. 3. 98.  Interview conducted by Georg Barta with Nils Einar Eriksson (1969), accessed 2 July 2009, http://​web​.telia​ .com/​~u31436585. The interview is also available at the Arkitektur- och design centrum, Stockholm. 99.  The quotation from the newspaper is not fully documented: the source is the architect’s own newspaper clipping archive; the date is 1934. See Dyrssen, Musikens rum, 150n49. Zimdahl, “Göteborgs konserthus,” 192. See Beyer, “Byggnadshistoria.” 100. Romdahl, Göteborgs konserthus. 101.  Ragnar Josephson, “Tre konserthus,” GHT, 13 June 1936, p. 3. 102. See GHT, 15 December 1935, p. 9. 103. Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 593. 104.  On film (with particular reference to film criticism and avant-​garde cinema), see GHT, 30 November 1936, esp. pp. 6–8. 105.  See Rosen, Poul Kanneworff. Rosen points out that Kanneworff was well received by the Gothenburg public, unlike another theatrical modernizer, Isaac Grünewald, in Stockholm (see 61–65). 106. “Göteborgs nya konserthus: Byggnaden,” GHT, 5 October 1935, p. 3. 107. Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv.



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108. On Stenhammar’s ambitions for Gothenburg’s cultural life, see Wallner, Wilhelm Stenhammar och hans tid, 2:586–603. Hauge, “Carl Nielsen and the Gothenburg Orchestral Society.” 109.  For example, while visiting Sweden, he met Selma Lagerlöf and corresponded with Ellen Key; see M. R. Mogensen, Carl Nielsen, 4:762. The information is contained in a letter to Thorvald Aagaard, 26 December 1918. 110.  Maegaard, “1923—​The Critical Year of Modern Music,” in particular 107–8. 111.  Grimley, “Modernism and Closure,” 149. Studies of Nielsen’s modernity have their roots in the work of Simpson, Carl Nielsen: Symphonist, 21. 112.  Electronic communication, 5 March 2009. Julius Rabe appreciated this quality; see Rabe, “Carl Nielsen,” 420–21. See also Lewis Rowell, “Carl Nielsen’s Homespun Philosophy of Music,” in Miller, Nielsen Companion, 31–57. Nielsen’s nationalism is not a deliberate creation of the composer. He observed, “A people can make art national, not a composer; it has to come to him unconsciously.” This observation is from a contemporary article in the Copenhagen newspaper Politiken. See Brown, European Symphony, 568. 113. Nielsen, Living Music, 59. 114.  The significance of the snare drum’s disturbance has been extensively debated. For a summary of opinions, see Fanning, Nielsen: Symphony No. 5, 15–16. 115.  Ibid., 110–11. 116.  See Broman, Kakofont storhetsvansinne, 136–47. 117.  Quoted in ibid., 137. 118.  Fjeldsøe, “Carl Nielsens 5”; Grimley, “Modernism and Closure,” 151. 119.  GHT, 8 March 1922, p. 7. 120.  GP, 9 March 1922, p. 3. 121.  GHT, 9 March 1922, p. 3. See Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 650, and Broman, Kakofont storhetsvansinne, 141–42. 122.  GMP, 9 March 1922, p. 5. 123.  GT, 9 March 1922, p. 3.

124.  NT, 9 March 1922, p. 3. 125.  There is no justification for the comment by Gerd and Lennart Reimers that the place of classical music in the daily press was very weak (mycket svag) in this period. Reimers and Reimers, Gösta Nystroem, 100. A more balanced consideration is provided by both Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, and Broman, Kakofont storhetsvansinne. Both volumes contain extensive documentation of the engagement of the daily press with classical music. Public debate around the theater was also lively. For example, an extensive discussion about the nature of a civic theater was organized by Handelstidningen and then published separately in 1909 as Hvad är att göra? En rundfråga om Göteborgs teaterförhållanden (What’s to do? An inquiry into Gothenburg’s theater situation) with twenty-​five contributors. See also Wallner, Wilhelm Stenhammar och hans tid, 2:586–94. 126. Wallner, Wilhelm Stenhammar och hans tid, 3:272–75. 127.  On the importance of the newspapers in Gothenburg, see ibid., 3:278. GT, GMP, and NT had less fulsome coverage. 128.  An overview is provided by Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv; see 2–3, 130–35. An interesting comparison can be made with the New York Times in this period, when two articles about a program—​a preliminary description and a review—​were common in the paper. Reports from foreign correspondents also made up part of the coverage in the New York Times. New York, it should be said, had a population twenty-​eight times larger than that of Gothenburg! 129.  The transformative moment in Gothenburg’s musical life was the engagement of Wilhelm Stenhammar in April 1907. The employment of Stenhammar at a high salary was criticized in Stockholm but significantly raised the quality of the orchestra. Wallner, Wilhelm Stenhammar och hans tid, 2:443–44. 130. Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 125–31. Rosenberg was a prominent modernist composer;

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Jeanson wrote significant books on music history and was a leading supporter of modernism; Tillius was a prominent piano teacher and later started a music school in Gothenburg; and Anrep-​Nordin was a professional organist as well as a teacher in the local college. 131.  Ibid., 134. 132.  Rabe, “Carl Nielsen,” 418–19. 133. Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 651. 134.  Ibid., 526, 651. See Reimers and Reimers, Gösta Nystroem, 100– 106. Reflecting the widespread bias against jazz among classical-​music critics, Neville Cardus in Manchester around 1931–32 thought Gershwin’s American in Paris “not even amusing.” Kennedy, Hallé Tradition, 236. 135.  See, for example, the favorable review of works by Atterberg and Rosenberg (and Brahms) in GHT, 9 October 1936, p. 12. Nystroem is at pains to connect Atterberg to the National Romantic traditions of Swedish music. 136.  Reimers and Reimers, Gösta Nystroem, 106–10. 137.  Gösta Nystroem, “Två Stockholmskonserter,” GHT, 16 April 1937, p. 3. 138.  For a discussion of these reports in GHT, see Reimers and Reimers, Gösta Nystroem, 103–4. 139.  Handelstidningen also sponsored regular radio broadcasts of concerts, as it announced 9 October 1924, p. 10. These predate the founding of Sveriges Radio. 140.  Edström points out the rarity of modern works (even Debussy), and critical opinion divided sharply over newer chamber music. Newspapers gave quite different accounts of the First and Third String Quartets by Hilding Rosenberg (1932 and 1933) and of Bartók, Nystroem, and Hindemith (1936). Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 521–27. 141.  Julius Rabe, quoted in ibid., 648n83. The article is dated 27 February 1923. By comparison, Manchester, for example, only heard Verklärte Nacht in 1947–48. See Kennedy, Hallé Tradition, 339.

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142.  Nystroem called Glantz’s performance “kallt och opersonligt,” though he admired the work and briefly explained the twelve-​tone system for readers. See GHT, 30 November 1936, p. 11. 143. Gösta Nystroem, “Två Stockholmskonserter,” GHT, 16 April 1937, p. 3. 144.  Per Ringby and Claes Rosenqvist, “Teater i Göteborg 1910–1975,” in Teater i Göteborg, 1:80. Ringby and Rosenqvist make clear that decisions such as these were based on economic necessity. 145. Gösta Nystroem, “Teater och musik,” GHT, 12 December 1936, p. 15. 146.  On the failure of Gothenburg to hear the music of the Second Viennese School, see Edström, Göteborgs rika musikliv, 514, 521–22, and 648. Not even the Kammarmusikföreningen (Chamber Music Society) found room for Schoenberg. Reading Edström’s book, one is struck by the parallel tastes, hostile to modernism, shown by Vidi (a far-right-​wing newspaper) and Ny tid (a Social Democratic paper). See, for example, ibid., 134n23. 147.  This statistic is based on the summaries in ibid., 627–29. The actual percentage is 22.65 percent based on 2,565 works played between 1925 and 1935. “Living” does not equal “modern.” Many of the composers were strongly influenced by folk music (Grainger, Alfvén, Peterson-​Berger, Stenhammar). 148. M. R. Mogensen, Nielsen, 4:848. What would Nielsen’s reception have been in an industrial city like Manchester? Manchester had a great music critic in Neville Cardus (1889–1975), but it was a city less open to modern music than Gothenburg, and works by the major European modernists arrived there more slowly. For its modern music, Manchester, like Gothenburg, relied on local (i.e., national) composers. See Kennedy, Hallé Tradition, 244–63. 149.  Newspapers in Gothenburg did not have regular architectural critics on staff and only rarely would provide an authoritative critical opinion. The usual choice for such opinion was Gotthard Johansson, who wrote more

regularly for SvD, in Stockholm. Occasionally the paper would publish essays by Ragnar Josephson. 150.  See, for example, an article on the League of Nations building, “Nyorientering inom arkitektur,” GHT, 23 August 1934, pp. 3 + 9. 151.  DN, 3 November 1936, p. 30. Romdahl might have been aware of the evolving role of architectural journalism in the United States and England. Charles Reilly returned from the United States deeply impressed with the Americans’ knowledge of their own buildings and set about building his own career as a journalist. See Richmond, Marketing Modernisms, chap. 7. The problems of architectural criticism in England were also raised in the RIBA Journal and even reflected in local newspaper letter columns; see the Hornsey Journal, 18 October 1936, p. 5. 152.  Whether matters were any better in Stockholm is a matter of opinion. “Hasse Z.” (Hasse Zetterström), writing in the Stockholm newspaper SvD (4 November 1936, p. 10) about the anger provoked by Asplund’s extension, observes that Stockholm residents adopted a bitter smile when the effectiveness of press criticism came up, recalling debates in the capital about the Parliament House, the Royal Opera, the police headquarters, the Dramatic Theater, “and much else despite unanimous press criticism.” 153.  On the origins of architectural competitions, see Bergdoll, “Competing in the Academy.” 154.  See, for example, the complaints of the Swedish architect Mogensen, “Arkitekttävlingar.” Mogensen’s complaints center on the role played by juries. Gunnar Sundbärg collected information on European and American competitions; see Sundbärg, “Tävlingsfrågorna.” 155. Waern, Tävlingarnas tid, 162. 156.  Ibid., 157. 157. E. M. Barry, Lectures on Architecture (London, 1881), 135, quoted in Bergdoll, “Competing in the Academy,” 41. 158.  Östnäs, “Arkitekterna och deras yrkesutveckling i Sverige,” 154. The growth of the architectural

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profession in Sweden was slow. In 1921 only five architects took the examination; in 1931 the number was twenty-​ two. See ibid., 134. 159.  See Bergdoll, “Competing in the Academy,” 43. Why would professionals want to dilute their judgment with the opinions of outsiders? 160. Waern, Tävlingarnas tid, 170–71, 178. 161.  Povl Drachmann, “Farvel Pakkasse!” Berlingske Tidende, 25 August 1937, p. 8. 162.  Poul Henningsen, “Aarhus og Fornuften,” Politiken, 26 August 1937, p. 7. 163.  “Samtale paa Tomandshaand: Med Taarn og ‘jordfødte Mursten’ eller funktionalistisk og med Cement?” Politiken, 5 September 1937, pp. 5–6. 164.  “Aarhus nye Raadhuis med et 50 Meter højt Taarn,” Politiken, 19 September 1937, pp. 1 + 12. See also Møller, Lindhe, and Vindum, Aarhus City Hall.

Chapter 6

1. Wagner, Modern Architecture, 78. 2.  Dudok, “Toelichting bij het ontwerp voor en Raadhuis te Leiden.” See also Zanstra, “L’hôtel de ville de Leiden.” 3.  Jean-​Louis Cohen, ed., Le Corbusier: An Atlas of Modern Landscapes (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2013), 158. 4.  Hallandsposten, 7 December 1935, special edition, pp. 1 + 6. 5.  “Den yttre formgivningen är framställd i tvänne alternativ, av vilken alt.1 är utfört i mer traditionell anda och alt. 2 närmare ansluter sig till vår tid och därför torde vara att föredragna.” Proposal of Friberger, 1 May 1929, Kungsbacka stadsarkiv, Kungsbacka stad, Drätselkammaren, Fastigheter o anläggningar no. Fii:3. Thanks to Jill Karapidou for bringing this document to my attention. 6.  The quotation is from Nordhalland, 6 December 1935, as cited by Monica Cardholm, “Kungsbacka Stadshus: Kommunalhus som symbol” (thesis, University of Gothenburg, 2002), 17.



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7.  Norra Hallands veckoblad, 12 December 1935, p. 1. 8.  Kristianstads Läns-​Demokraten, 19 October 1936. Kristianstad newspaper citations without page numbers are to a clipping archive in the Kristianstad Communal Archive: Kristianstads kommunarkiv, Rådhusbyggnadskommittén, Volym: F1:1 Byggnadshandlingar 1936–37 (“Rådhusbygget i pressen”), pressklipp 1937–39. 9.  Kristianstads Läns tidning, 20 October 1936. 10.  Ibid., 21 October 1936. 11.  “Reservationen rörande Stora torgsbygget,” Kristianstadsbladet, 23 August 1937. Further discussion took place in Kristianstadsbladet, 26 August 1937, p. 4. See also Kristianstads Läns tidning, 31 August 1937, p. 3. 12.  Like Asplund’s Gothenburg extension, the Halmstad’s city hall–law court was funded by stimulus money from the government. The entire cost of the building was estimated at 1.2 million kronor. The government paid 20 percent. 13.  See Halmstad, Kommunarchiv, Rådhusbyggnadskommitén, protokoll och handlingar, 1933–39, A1:5. On the history of the courthouse, see Rådhuset 50 år. 14.  Ibid., A1:1, report by Ivar Teng­ bom, 20 June 1933. 15.  Ibid., Bil. Litt. D§13. 16.  The peaked roof of architect Georg A. Nilsson’s entry, for example, echoed that of the Appeltofft Building. He then stepped the new building forward onto the square, turning the seventeenth-​century building into a dependency. Ture Ryberg also placed his building forward of the Appeltofft structure and floated the main body of the building on piers. He placed the narrow edge of the façade toward the square, puncturing the wall to echo the effects of half-​timbering on the older building. 17. See Halländingen for the announcement of the winners (18 June 1935) and the objections of Ragnar Östberg (20 June 1935, pp. 1 + 6). It would, he said, “ge det hela karaktären av ett provisorium” (give the entire site a

provisional character). For the vote to ratify the jury selection (29–25), see Halländingen, 4 July 1935, p. 2. 18.  In an essay published initially in 1923 and republished in 1935, Ragnar Josephson had especially praised Östberg’s complex interweaving of art and architecture; see Josephson, “Hans Alienus’ hus,” in Nationalism och humanism, 103–8. 19. Halmstad, Kommunarchiv, Rådhusbyggnadskommitén, protokoll och handlingar, 1933–39, A1:1, Bil. Litt. B§1, 8 March 1938. 20.  Bramzelius, “Konsthantverket,” 27. 21.  Halländingen, 24 September 1938, supplement, pp. 2 + 7. 22.  Halländingen, 27 September 1938, p. 8. 23.  Cyrillus Johansson, foreword to Byggnaden och Staden, 4. (The English translation has been corrected against the Swedish original.) 24.  In the town halls Johansson built for Trosa (1937) and Mjölby (1937–39), as well as in the competition entry for Östersund (1948), his continuing pursuit of similar issues are apparent. Members of the Mjölby Town Council traveled to Stockholm to meet with Asplund at his office there, and he gave the site and commission as a problem for his students at KTH (the Royal Institute of Technology / Kungliga tekniska högskolan). 25.  Upsala nya tidning, 14 June 1939, p. 4. 26.  “Denna trapphall kommer med sin oordnade sammanställning av gammal pompa och moderna bekvämlighet att bli ett mixtum compositum.” Upsala nya tidning, 14 June 1939, p. 4. 27.  Linnman, “Tävling om Malmö rådhus,” 38. 28.  Ibid., 37–38. 29.  Ibid., 40, 41. 30.  Karlskoga stadshus: Den 31 December 1939, 2–3 (for Lindström’s fantasy) and 8 (on the building’s monumentality). 31.  See, for example, the winners of the city-​hall competitions for Linköping (Lefvert and Wranér, 1948) and Hässelholm (Ekholm and White, 1948), and entries for Östersund,

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Sandviken, Nynäshamn, and Kristinehamn. See Byggmästaren, no. 7 (1948): 105–24. 32.  One of the most interesting unbuilt projects from this period was the first-​prize entry of Sven Backström and Leif Reinius for the theater and courthouse for Lund (1938). Conceived as a compact urban unit, the individual buildings were to be grouped around a pool, creating the kind of townscape that Swedish architects would develop after the war in new communities. See Backström and Reinius, “Tävling om rådhus.” 33.  Reinius, “Stadshus,” 105. 34.  Reinius might have been more pleased with some of the communal buildings of the early 1950s: Hagfors (1951, Harry Egler), Boliden (1951, John Åkerlund), Eslöv (1957, Hans Asplund). For an appreciation of the richness of communal architecture in this period, see Larson and Wernlid, Hus i folkets tjänst. 35. Lane, Architecture and Politics in Germany, chap. 5. 36.  Asplund et al., acceptera, in Creagh, Kåberg, and Lane, Modern Swedish Design, 317 and 318. 37. Reilly, Theory and Practice of Architecture, 131. 38. Storm, Culture of Regionalism; Golan, Modernity and Nostalgia. 39. Harris, Romantic Moderns. 40. See L’architecture d’aujourd’hui 5, no. 11 (November 1935): 8–63. 41.  Posener, “Rapport.” 42.  Pardal Monteiro, “Du caractère national.” 43.  Raphael, “Är den moderna arkitekturen internationell?” The text has also been published under the title “Ist die moderne Architektur international? Eine Anmerkung zu André Lurçats Schulgruppe in Villejuif,” in Raphael, Für eine demokratische Architektur. There are minor differences between the texts. 44.  This new situation may also have spelled the end of the “return to order” that had marked architecture of the late 1920s. 45.  Moravánszky and Gyöngy, Architekturtheorie, 94–95.

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46.  Meyer, “Musée de l’art moderne.” 47.  Schmidt, “Anmerkungen zum Musée de l’art moderne.” 48.  Meyer, “Ueberlegungen zum Problem der Monumentalität,” 124. 49.  Sundbärg, “Något om moderna principer.” Sundbärg participated in the polemics around functionalism in the early 1930s. See, for example, his comments on architectural training in Teknisk tidskrift, 226–27. 50. See GHT, 16 and 17 March 1944. The main goal of the articles was to explain how Asplund’s decisions about the building’s form responded to function. 51.  Sundbärg, “Monumentalitet.” 52.  Ibid., 304. 53.  Quoted (inaccurately) in Beyme, “Architecture and Democracy,” 138. He attributes the remark to a nonexistent French president. 54.  Quoted in ibid., 139. 55.  I owe the formulation of modernity as a condition to Carol Gluck, “End of Elsewhere.” 56.  Reilly, “Town Hall Problem,” 115. 57.  See Thomas Cecil Howitt’s Newport Civic Centre (1937–40) and Thomas’s town hall at Accrington, Lancashire, which combined police station, fire station, and magistrate’s court (1933–35); Thornley and Briggs’s Barnsley Town Hall (1932–33), thought to be a waste of money by George Orwell, recalled the inner courtyards of William Chambers’s Somerset House in their façades. Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974), 58–59. 58. Richards, Memoirs of an Unjust Fella, 86. 59.  “Court House in Sussex.” 60.  Objections to modernism by conservative commentators such as Reginald Blomfield melted in the face of Swedish and Danish architecture. See Blomfield, Modernismus, 61–64. 61. Cherry, Civic Pride in Hornsey. 62.  Kentish Mercury, 29 October 1939, p. 1. 63.  Hornsey Journal, 8 November 1935, p. 3.

64.  See Reilly, Theory and Practice of Architecture, 139–42. 65. See Eastern Daily Press, 31 October 1938, p. 12. A comparison of the ceremonies would be revealing. At Norwich, for example, the unemployed were given ample time with the king and queen. At Southampton (in 1932) the unemployed could be seen at a distance mumbling about wages. 66.  “Norwich City Hall,” 201–2. 67.  Hampshire Advertiser and Southampton Times, 12 November 1932, p. 6. 68. Jackson, Politics of Architecture, 40. 69.  “At the time of the General Strike in 1926, the students of the AA [Architectural Association] . . . could patriotically answer the call to help defeat the workers by acting as policemen and railwaymen. Ten years later AA students were registering their alarm as ‘the Fascist elements in this country attack progressive art.’ ” Ibid., 66. In 1926, at the Liverpool School of Architecture, the architects (proudly) presented a film showing the students engaged in strikebreaking during the General Strike. See Sharples, Powers, and Shippobottom, Charles Reilly, 88. 70.  The original mayor was Gustav Delory, who was succeeded by Roger Salengro. 71.  Bergeijk and Meurs, Town Hall, Hilversum, 25–26. Dudok had visited Stockholm and Gothenburg in 1923 (ibid., 18). 72.  Östgöta correspondenten, 19 May 1937, p. 3. See also Coleman, “Stadshusen i Centrum,” 13. 73.  An exception is Carl Lindhagen (1860–1946), the socialist politician, parliamentarian, judge, and lawyer. Lindhagen was responsible for the construction of garden suburbs within Stockholm and took a strong position against modern architecture. See Hjertberg, “Stockholms skönhetsråd.” 74. J. Olsson, Sveriges kommunalstyrelse, 82. 75.  R. K. Gooch, “England,” in Anderson, Local Government in Europe, 13–17.

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76.  Walter Rice Sharp, “France,” in Anderson, Local Government in Europe, 147. 77.  On Morizet, see Guillot, André Morizet. On the architecture of Boulogne-​Billancourt in general, see Cohen, “Une ‘ville moderne’ aux portes de la capitale.” 78.  Among his achievements was the law of 15 May 1930 that opened the private streets of the suburbs of Paris to communal control, leading to the paving of many and the laying of gas lines and electricity cables. 79. Morizet, Du vieux Paris au Paris moderne. 80.  Morizet, “Le troisième Congrès international des villes.” Quotation from Guillot, “L’Union socialiste communiste,” 9. 81.  On municipal socialism, see Rebérioux, “Le socialisme municipal.” 82.  In addition, he built two schools and undertook the expansion of a home for the elderly. He also organized health and sanitation programs and summer-​vacation activities for residents. On the town hall, see Foucart, “La mairie de Boulogne-​Billancourt.” 83.  On the early history of Boulogne-​Billancourt, see Le Gallo, “Une mairie moderne.” 84.  See Stovall, Rise of the Paris Red Belt. 85.  Le républicain, 16 June 1934, p. 1. 86.  On the interior a history of the town of Puteaux is depicted along the monumental staircase (Louis Bouquet), and decorations grace the marriage hall (Dionisy). 87.  Vago, “L’hôtel de ville, Puteaux,” 18. 88.  Journal de Poissy, 9 December 1937, p. 1. 89.  The actual source for the skyscrapers may be Stockholm’s twin towers on Kungsgatan; see Gallo, “Le réception et le quartier des gratte-​ ciel, centre de Villeurbanne,” 150. 90.  Reilly, “Town Hall Problem,” 113. On the state of English architecture, see David Watkin, “Stile e politica nell’architettura britannica negli anni



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trenta,” in Ciucci, Classicismo, classicismi, 185–95. 91. Richards, Memoirs of an Unjust Fella, 86. 92. Cotton, Town Halls, 8. 93.  Ibid., 10. 94. Ibid. 95.  Ibid., 27. 96.  There is, for example, no article in Byggmästaren. 97.  See Jerram, Germany’s Other Modernity, 92–101. 98.  Leitenstorfer, in Beblo, Leitenstorfer, and Knorr, Das technische Rathaus, 17. 99. Jerram, Germany’s Other Modernity, 97. 100.  Ibid., 99. 101.  Linnman, “Tävling om Malmö rådhus,” 38. 102.  Or as Mark Jarzombek notes, “In sum, psychology is to the modern age what perspective was to the Renaissance.” Jarzombek, Psychologizing of Modernity, 16. 103.  The phrase is “le facteur psychologique.” Valois, “Dudok,” 6. 104. Cotton, Town Halls, 29. 105.  Sée, “Le nouvel hôtel de ville de Boulogne-​Billancourt,” 120. 106.  See Amedée Ozenfant and Charles-​Édouard Jeanneret, “Formation de l’optique moderne,” L’Esprit nouveau 5, no. 21 (1924), cited by Cohen in his introduction to Le Corbusier, Toward an Architecture, 65n63. 107.  Le Corbusier, Une maison—​ un palais, 147. 108.  Ahlberg, “Gunnar Asplund Architect,” 72. The building is presented without commentary in a book on the work of the 1930s. See Svenska arkitekters riksförbund, Trettiotalets byggnadskonst, 104. 109.  Henningsen, “Vi är själva historia,” 6. 110. E. Cornell, Ny svensk byggnadskonst, 98. 111.  Rasmussen, “Raadhuset i Göteborg,” 144. The Bentsen quotation is from Sestoft, “The Impact of Gunnar Asplund on Danish Architecture,” 29. 112.  Sestoft, “The Impact of Gunnar Asplund on Danish Architecture,”

29, claims that Jacobsen had not seen the completed building. 113.  Vindum, in Møller, Lindhe, and Vindum, Aarhus City Hall, 79. 114.  Bloxham Zettersten, Nordiskt perspektiv på arkitektur, 140. 115.  Vindum, in Møller, Lindhe, and Vindum, Aarhus City Hall, 81. 116.  Alvar Aalto, “Erik Gunnar Asplund,” reproduced in Schildt, Alvar Aalto in His Own Words, 243. 117. Carrel, Man, the Unknown, 152, 315. 118.  Alvar Aalto, “Rationalism and Man,” in Schildt, Alvar Aalto in His Own Words, 89–93. 119.  Quotations from Muratori, Antologia critica, 35. I am using the allusive language of Muratori to frame this point. 120.  Elzas, “Scandinavië.” 121.  Moravánsky, “Gunnar Asplund’s Impact on Hungarian Architecture.” Nagy, Erik Gunnar Asplund. 122.  For example, see Tucker and Sjödin, “Growth of Modern Architecture.” They describe the major works of Asplund since the Stockholm Exhibition (Bredenberg’s department store, the bacteriological laboratory, the courthouse extension). “These buildings,” they note, “are distinguished by clever interior design and by an imaginative use of materials” (66). 123.  De Maré, Gunnar Asplund, 34. 124.  Venturi’s omission of Asplund’s name was noted at the conference on Asplund (1985) by Sestoft (see “The Impact of Gunnar Asplund on Danish Architecture,” 31) and by Parsons (see “American Interest in the Architecture of Gunnar Asplund,” 127). 125. Venturi, Complexity and Contradiction, quotations from 30, 46, 71. 126.  Graves, “Monumentality and the City,” in Monumentality and the City, 39. 127.  Mitchell and Giurgola, Mitchell/Giurgola Architects. I owe the connection between Asplund and Giurgola to Parsons, “American Interest in the Architecture of Gunnar Asplund.” 128. Wrede, Architecture of Erik Gunnar Asplund.

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129.  Caldenby and Hultin, Asplund; Hellquist, “Il collasso di una visione”; Blundell Jones, “Gothenburg Law Courts,” pts. 1 and 2. 130.  Reprinted in St. John Wilson, “Gunnar Asplund and the Dilemma of Classicism,” 140, 154. 131. Byard, Architecture of Additions, 31. 132.  Ibid., 36. 133.  Byard, “Representing American Justice,” 285.

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134.  Venturi, Scott Brown, and Izenour, Learning from Las Vegas, 149. See also Aron Vinegar, I Am a Monument: On Learning from Las Vegas (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2008), chap. 4. 135.  Reported by Gallet, “A User’s Viewpoint,” 267. 136.  Maass et al., “Intimidating Buildings.”

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Following common English practice, Swedish titles and authors have been alphabetized without regard to diacritics. Acking, Carl-​Axel. “Artist and Professional: Glimpses from Asplund’s Last Years.” In Asplund, edited by Claes Caldenby and Olof Hultin, 17–21. New York: Rizzoli, 1986. ———. “Asplund as Architectural Psychologist.” In Engfors, Lectures and Briefings, 107–10. ———. “Asplund as Teacher and Principal.” In Engfors, Lectures and Briefings, 65–67. ———. “Erik Gunnar Asplund: Il suo lavoro e la sua opera quotidiana.” In Erik Gunnar Asplund: Mobili e oggetti, edited by Filippo Alison, 10–29. Milan: Electa, 1985. Adams, Nicholas. “Asplunds rådhustillbyggnad: Om Gunnar Asplund, rådhuset och lagen.” Arkitektur, no. 4 (2007): 30–41. ———. Gunnar Asplund. Milan: Electa, 2011. ———. “Making a Heritage to Defend: Sculpture and Architecture on Gustaf Adolf Square, Gothenburg (1621–1936).” In Platzanlagen und ihre Monumente: Zur Wechselwirkungen zwischen Skulptur und Stadtraum, edited by Alessandro Nova und Stephanie Hanke. Florence: Kunsthistorisches Institut; Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, in press. Ahlberg, Hakon. “Gunnar Asplund Architect.” In Gunnar Asplund Architect, 1885–1940, edited by Gustav Holmdahl, Sven Ivar Lind, and Kjell Ödeen, 19–81. Stockholm: Tidskriften Byggmästaren, 1950. (Originally published in Swedish as “Gunnar Asplund arkitekt,” in Holmdahl, Lind, and Ödeen, Gunnar Asplund arkitekt 1885–1940, 9–82.) ———. “Den tyska arkitekturutställningen på Konstakademin.” Byggmästaren, no. 2 (1933): 18–22. Ahnlund, Nils. Gustav Adolf den store. Stockholm: Svenska kyrkans diakonistyrelses bokförlag, 1932. Ahrbom, Nils. “Thulehuset i Göteborg.” Byggmästaren, no. 1 (1935): 9–15. Åhrén, Uno. “Byggandet som konst och politik.” Spektrum 1 (1931): 10–17. ———. “Tillbyggnaden av Göteborgs rådhus.” Form, no. 10 (1938): 213–19. Åhsberg, Bengt. “Pronazismen i Sverige under 1930-​talet ideologiska och mentalitetsmässiga grunder.” Scandia 66, no. 2 (1999): 225–67. Åkerblom, Fredrik. I Göteborg för omkring hundra år sedan. Gothenburg: Bellander, 1898.

Alban, J. R., ed. The Guildhall Swansea: Essays to Commemorate the Fiftieth Anniversary of Its Opening. Swansea: City of Swansea, 1984. Alfvén, Hugo. Alfvén Conducts Alfvén. With commentary by Carl-​Gunnar Åhlén. Phono Suecia PSCD 109, 1997, compact disc. ———. Final. Stockholm: Norstedt, 1952. Alison, Filippo, ed. Erik Gunnar Asplund: Mobili e oggetti. Milan: Electa, 1985. Almquist, J. E. “Med hand å bok.” Svensk juristtidning 22 (1937): 240–46. Åman, Anders. “Om acceptera—​efterskrift till 1980 års upplaga.” In Asplund et al., acceptera (1980), 200–208. Andenaes, Johannes. “The Legal Framework.” Scandinavian Studies in Criminology 2 (1968): 9–17. Anderson, William, ed. Local Government in Europe. New York: D. Appleton-​Century, 1939. Anners, Erik, and Per Edwin Wallén. Svensk straffrättshistoria: Några huvudlinjer. 2 vols. Stockholm: AWE/ Geber, 1972. Anrick, Carl-​Julius, Arthur Lindhagen, and Mårten Stenberger, eds. En bok om Göteborg. Stockholm: Svenska turistföreningen, 1931. Anton, Thomas J. Administered Politics: Elite Political Culture in Sweden. Boston: Martinus Nijhoff, 1980. Arvidson, Stellan. “Reaktionerna och det historiska minne.” Clarté 9, no. 5 (1932): 13–14. Asplund, Erik Gunnar. “Aktuella arkitektoniska faror för Stockholm, hyreshusen.” Teknisk tidskrift, no. 10 (1916): 127–36. ———. “Göteborgs rådhus.” Byggmästaren, no. 10 (1939): 157–68. ———. “Det nya rådhuset.” In Göteborgs rådhus: Om- och tillbyggnad 1935–1937; Berättelse avgiven av Rådhusbyggnadskommittén år 1938, 29–67. Gothenburg: Oscar Isacson, 1939. ———. “Planmässigheten i stadsbyggandet i Göteborg och i Stockholm.” Teknisk tidskrift, no. 8 (1918): 109–10. ———. Review of Gustaf Adolfs torg och rådhuset i Göteborg: En studie över torgbildens historia (1917), by Sixten Strömbom. Teknisk tidskrift, no. 5 (1917): 70. Asplund, Erik Gunnar, Wolter Gahn, Sven Markelius, Gregor Paulsson, Eskil Sundahl, and Uno Åhrén. acceptera. Stockholm: Tiden, 1931. Facsimile ed., Arlöv: Berling, 1980. Atmer, Ann-​Katrin Pihl. Stockholms stadshus och arkitekten Ragnar Östberg: Drömmen och verkligheten. Stockholm: Natur och kultur, 2011.

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Bloxham Zettersten, Gerd. Nordiskt perspektiv på arkitektur: Kritisk regionalisering i nordiska stadshus 1900–1955. Stockholm: Arkitektur, 2000. Blundell Jones, Peter. “Gothenburg Law Courts.” Pts. 1 and 2. Architect’s Journal, 14 October 1987, 32–49; 11 November 1987, 32–50. ———. Gunnar Asplund. London: Phaidon, 2006. Bohl, Charles C., and Jean-​François Lejeune, eds. Sitte, Hegemann, and the Metropolis: Modern Civic Art and International Exchanges. London: Routledge, 2009. Bok, Sissela. Alva Myrdal: A Daughter’s Memoir. Reading, Mass.: Addison-​Wesley, 1991. Bondeson, August. Skollärare John Cronschoughs memoarer. Stockholm: Bonnier, 1940. Borsi, Franco. The Monumental Era: European Architecture and Design, 1929–1939. London: Lund Humphries, 1987. Boyer, M. Christine. Le Corbusier: Homme de lettres. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2011. Bramzelius, Abbe W. “Konsthantverket i Halmstads nya rådhus.” Form, no. 2 (1939): 27–33. Broman, Per Olov. Kakofont storhetsvansinne eller uttryck för det djupaste liv? Om ny musik och musikåskådning i svenskt 1920-​tal, med särskild tonvikt på Hilding Rosenberg. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Musicologica Upsaliensia, n.s., no. 16. Uppsala: Uppsala University, 2000. Brown, A. Peter. The European Symphony from ca. 1800 to ca. 1930: Germany and the Nordic Countries. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007. Brunnström, Lisa. Det svenska folkhemsbygget: Om Kooperativa förbundets arkitektkontor. Stockholm: Arkitektur, 2004. Bruzelius, Anders, and Krister Thelin, eds. The Swedish Code of Judicial Procedure. Rev. ed. Littleton, Colo.: Fred B. Rothman, 1979. Byard, Paul Spencer. The Architecture of Additions: Design and Regulations. New York: W. W. Norton, 1998. ———. “Representing American Justice: The United States Supreme Court.” In Cass Gilbert, Life and Work: Architect of the Public Domain, edited by Barbara Christen and Steven Flanders, 272–87. New York: W. W. Norton, 2001. Caldenby, Claes. “Arkitekturens relativa heteronomi.” Arkitektur, no. 5 (2004): 73–75. ———, ed. Asplunds rådhus i Göteborg: Tiden, plats, arkitekturen / Asplund’s Courthouse in Gothenburg. Stockholm: Arkitekturmuseet, 2010. ———. Göteborgs konserthus: Ett album. Gothenburg: White arkitekter, 1992. ———. “När kom modernismen till Göteborg?” Kulturmiljövård 1–2 (1996): 44–51. Caldenby, Claes, Gunilla Linde Bjur, and Sven-​Olof Ohlsson. Guide till Göteborgs arkitektur. Stockholm: Arkitektur, 2006.

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Inde x

Page numbers in italics refer to figures. Aalto, Alvar on Asplund, 205–6 Asplund influenced, 6, 173, 204, 208 Franzell and, 51 Säynätsalo Town Hall, 206, 206 Aarhus City Hall (Denmark), 3, 172–73, 172, 173, 205 Abel, Adolf, 86 Academy of Fine Arts (Paris), 188 acceptera (Asplund et al.) authorship of, 56–57, 158 collectivism in, 106, 148 criticism of, 73–74 functionalism in, 147 modernism in, generally, 56–57, 104, 154–55, 185, 224n. 43 movement in, 115, 116 sculpture in, 71 Accrington (England), 232n. 57 Acking, Carl-​Axel on Asplund, 7, 113, 114, 222n. 97, 223n. 140 on furniture, 68–69, 218n. 98 on staircase, 115 acoustics, 100–101, 140 Ådalen, shooting at, 109 Adam and Eve, 112 Adelcrantz, Carl Fredrik, 24 Adler, Viktor, 27 Ahlberg, Hakon on Asplund, 56 on criticism, 124–25, 142 Gothenburg, High Court, 119 on Gustaf Adolf square, 48–49 on Halmstad courthouse, 147 on Royal Academy exhibition, 86–87 on Stockholm Exhibition, 93 Ahlbom, Sven, 201, 202 Ahlbom, Yngve, 175, 177–80, 178 Ahlsén, Erik, 129, 175, 176–77, 177 Ahlsén, Tore, 62, 129, 175, 176–77, 177 Ahrbom, Nils, 228n. 63 Åhrén, Uno in acceptera, 56 Avenyn and, 158–59, 161



culture and, 7 funkis and, 148, 149 Gothenburg Building Society and, 142 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 106, 132, 140, 204, 221n. 59, 221n. 61 Simmel and, 120 Sundbärg and, 87, 187 Air Ministry (Berlin), 192 Åkerblom, Fredrik, I Göteborg, 214n. 35 Åkerlund, John, 14, 184 Alarik, Oscar, 215n. 78, 215n. 80 Alfvén, Hugo, Midsommarvaka, Sveriges Flagga, 153 Alkman, Edvard, 59–60, 170 Almqvist, Osvald, 36 Alvik, 148 Amerikahuset, 54, 55 Andenaes, Johannes, 101 Anderson, Bernhard, 179 Andersson, Sven, 134 Anjou, Sten, 161 Anrep-​Nordin, Birger, 168 Antonescu, Petre, 220n. 19 Arkitektur, history of, 214n. 16 art. See also decoration; sculpture Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 101–5, 103, 104 Halmstad Town Hall and, 177–80 modernism and, 184, 185 State Art Council, 219n. 108 Arvidson, Stellan, 110 Asplund, Gerda, 225n. 55 Asplund, Gunnar. See also Gothenburg Courthouse extension acceptera, 56–57, 71, 73–74, 104, 106, 115, 116, 147, 148, 154–55, 158, 185, 224n. 43 Bredenberg Department Store, 177, 227n. 41, 233n. 122 concepts of, 42–43, 111–14, 114–16, 120–22 Gustaf Adolf square and, 11, 35–36, 40–55, 40, 41, 42, 45, 46 influence of, 6, 173, 181, 182, 189, 202–11 Karl Johan School, 10–11, 10, 72



Kristianstad courthouse and, 176 Kviberg crematorium, 136, 137, 139 Malmö Art Museum and, 151, 152 Mjölby town hall and, 195 in narrative, or “signature” (Gullberg), 103–4, 104 obituary of, 134–35, 144 reputation of, 10–11, 56, 139, 204–11 Skandia Cinema, 51 State Bacteriological Laboratory, 113, 207, 221n. 44, 233n. 122 Stockholm Exhibition and, 145, 146–47, 149, 225n. 55 Stockholm Public Library, 49, 50–51, 57, 73, 112, 113, 121, 147, 153, 206 styles of, 5–6, 35, 56–57, 111–14 Villa Snellman, 208 Woodland Cemetery, 111–12, 112, 113, 121, 208, 223n. 112 Asplund, Hans, 224n. 38 Association of Swedish Architects, 142 Astrid, princess, 28 Atkinson, Robert, 189–91, 191 Atterberg, Kurt, 169 Atterborn, John, 168 Aubert, A., 187, 187 Auden, W. H., 4 Aulnoye-​Aymeries (France), 193 Avenyn, 50, 50, 54, 157–66, 158, 159, 160 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 131 Bäck, Knut, 131, 156, 168 Backström, Sven, 232n. 32 Baeckström, Arvid, 142–43 Baker, Josephine, 162 “Balder’s Pasture—​or the Little Red Cabin by the Lake,” 149–50, 149 Bange, Fritz, 129 Barnsley (England), 200, 232n. 57 Barry, Edward Middleton, 171 Barthélemy, Georges, 196 Beckman, Birger, 53, 77, 126, 162–64, 166 Beethoven, Ludwig von, 131, 168 Belgium, urban squares, 184 Belli, Carlo, 85 Bendt, Ragnar, 195

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Bengtsson, Karl M., 54 Bentsen, Ivar, 205 Bergents, Th., 176 Berger, Carl, 72 Berger, C. G., 32 Bergman, Gustaf, 169 Bergson, Henri, 186 Bergsten, Carl Asplund taught by, 36, 112 Gothenburg City Theater (Stadsteater), 50, 54, 59–60, 60, 61, 158, 159 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 162 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 36 Liljevalchs Konsthall, 52, 54 M/S Kungsholm, 67 Bergström, Anders, 151 Berlin (Germany), 49, 85 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 113 Berry-au-​Bac (France), 193 Berzelius, Jöns Jacob, 26 Bestelmeyer, German, 86 Bible stand (Courthouse Extension), 68, 68, 101, 102 Biuw, Erik, 160–61 Bjerke, Arvid, 39, 41, 50, 50, 54, 55 and F.O. Peterson, F. O., 54, 55, 67 Bjerre, Andreas, 108, 109 Bidrag till mordets psykologi (Contribution to the psychology of murder), 108 “Bidrag till tjuvnadsbrottets,” (“Contribution to the psychology of the thief ”), 108 Björkfeldt, John Leonard, 21 Björkman, Erik, 195 Bjurström, Tor, 127, 132, 133 Blau, Eve, 7 Blomberg, Stig, 72 Blomfield, Reginald, 185, 209, 232n. 60 Blue Hall. See Östberg Boberg, Ferdinand, 146, 216n. 34 Bodin, Victor, 216n. 34 Boileau, Lady, 124 Bonde, Gustav, 13 Bonde och arbetare (film), 150 Bonde palace (Stockholm), 16 Bondeson, August, Skollärare John Chronschoughs memoarer (Grammar-​school teacher John Chronschough’s memoirs), 30 Bonhomme, Marcel, 193 Bonnier, Karl Otto, 125, 224n. 18 Borås, 18 Borén, Adolf, 131, 225n. 68 Borlänge, 14, 184

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Borromini, Francesco, 45, 113 Börshuset (Börs- och Festivitetsbyggnaden). See Exchange Building Boston (Massachusetts), 210 Boulogne-​Billancourt Hôtel de Ville, 82, 83 functionalism and, 3, 197, 203 modernism and, 81–83 Poissy Hôtel de Ville influenced by, 198 politics and, 4, 196 Bouquet, Louis, 233n. 86 Brahms, Johannes, 166, 169 Bramzelius, Abbe W., 179 Brangwyn, Frank, 189 Branting, Hjalmar, 109 Bredenberg Department Store (Stockholm), 117, 227n. 41, 233n. 122 Brenson, Théodore, 198 Broggi, Carlo, 79 Broman, Per Olov, 229n. 125 Brueghel, Pieter, the Elder, 154 Bruno, Giordano, 110 Bucharest (Romania), 220n. 19 Buffalo (New York), 51 Bundestag (Bonn), 188 Burke, Edmund, 126 Byard, Paul, 209 Byggmästaren, 141, 214n. 16 Cachan Hôtel de Ville, 3, 78, 193, 194, 196 café, 8, 64, 90, 97, 135, 144 Caldenby, Claes, 208 Callmander, Ivar, 36 Calsat, Henri, 197, 198, 198 Camden Town Hall (London, England), 189, 200 Cardus, Neville, 230n. 134, 230n. 148 Carlander, Axel, 28 Carlberg, Bengt Wilhelm, 22, 23, 24 Carlberg, Carl Wilhelm, 22 Carrel, Alexis, Man, the Unknown, 205–6 cartoons “Den ned och uppvända fasaden” (“The upside down façade”), 137 “Nytt bekymmer” (“New Fears”), 128 “Offervilja” (“In the spirit of self-​ sacrifice”), 138 “Var så god och sitt” (“Please Take a Seat”), 136 Casa del Fascio (Como), 220n. 30 Cassirer, Ernst, 223n. 138 Castellare dei Malavolti (Siena), 100

Cederbourg, Eric, 22, 23 Chalmers slöjdskolan (Chalmers Craft School), 26 Chambers, William, 232n. 57 Chambord, Château de, staircase (France), 47 Chicago (Illinois), 7 Chicester (England), 189 Christian IV, king of Denmark, 20 Christiansen, Han Peder, 173 Chronander, Bror, 54, 73 city halls. See town halls Clason, Isak Gustaf, 17, 18, 19, 36, 216n. 34 clock, 8, 95, 117 law and, 116, 119, 120 modernism and, 94, 100 Coates, Wells, 123 collective houses, 148–50, 155 Colombes (France), 193 color, 125, 127, 133 columns Aarhus City Hall, 205 Ehrensvärd on, 214n. 27 Gothenburg City Theater, 60 Gothenburg Concert Hall, 54, 163, 164 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 8, 65–66, 74, 100 Gustaf Adolf square and, 40, 44 Ludvika City Hall, 181 Puteaux Hôtel de Ville, 197 Stockholm courthouse, 18 in Swedish architecture, generally, 51 Uppsala Courthouse, 182 Villeurbanne Hôtel de Ville, 199 Commission des Beaux-​Arts (Paris), 197 Communism, 84, 148–49, 153, 187, 196 competitions for Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 4, 10, 33–34, 35, 36–40, 37, 38, 39, 174 for public architecture, generally, 170–73, 199–200 Condon Hall, Seattle (Washington), 208 Congrès internationale de l’architecture modern (CIAM), 158 Copenhagen (Denmark), 16, 16, 148, 204, 214n. 46 Cornell, Elias, 116, 204 Cornell, Henrik, Karakteriseringsproblemet i konstvetenskapen (The problem of characterization in art history), 119

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Cotton, Arthur Calveley, 200 Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder courtyard of, 22, 23, 35, 36, 39, 44–45, 47, 61, 64, 65, 76–77, 77, 87, 89, 90–92, 91, 97 design of, 22–23, 22, 23 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, as built, 4, 5, 87, 89–90, 106 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, criticism of, 127–29, 129–30, 134 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, design of, 35, 36, 38–40, 51–52, 69, 88, 89, 98, 217n. 52 Governor’s House and, 32–34 Gustaf Adolf square and, 25, 27, 31–32, 32, 35, 43, 44–45 monumentality and, 130 renovation of, 26, 38–40 courthouses. See also Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder; Gothenburg Courthouse extension in Borås, 18 in Borlänge, 14, 184 in Chicester, 189 in Halmstad, 147, 175, 177–80, 178 in Helsingborg, 171 in Jönköping, 14, 15 in Kristianstad, 175, 176–77, 177 in Landskrona, 13 law and, 6, 105–7 in Leipzig, 86, 86 in Lund, 232n. 32 in Malmö, 14, 183, 183, 202 monumentality and, 2, 3, 16–20, 130 in New York City, 211 in Norrköping, 18, 19 in Örebro, 14 in Östersund, 18 in Padua, 211 politics and, 13–14 public architecture and, 14–20 in Stockholm, 13, 14, 18–20, 19, 36, 140, 151 in Swansea, 189 in Sweden, 13–20 town halls and, 14 in Uddevalla, 14 in Uppsala, 181–82, 181, 182 in Vadstena, 14 in Västerås, 14 in Weston-super-​Mare, 189 courtrooms as built, 8, 97, 100, 101, 102



designs for, 64, 65, 66, 66, 67–69, 68, 69, 70, 71, 76 courtyard of Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, originally, 22, 23, 35 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, as built, 87, 89, 90–92, 91, 97 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, designs for, 36, 39, 44–45, 47, 61, 64, 65, 76–77, 77 Cowles-​Voysey, C., 189, 200 crematorium, 136, 137, 139 Cresp, Émile, 196 criminality, 107–9, 121–22 criticism. See also politics of Aarhus City Hall, 172–73 of Avenyn, 159–62 of German architecture, 86–87 of Gothenburg City Theater, 60 of Gothenburg Concert Hall, 162– 64, 165, 166 of Gothenburg Courthouse extension, as built, 5, 104, 120, 124–43, 128, 136, 137, 138, 144–45, 154, 159, 161–62, 171, 204–6, 206–7, 221n. 59, 221n. 61 of Gothenburg Courthouse extension, designs for, 37–40, 61–64, 73–74, 76 of Gustaf Adolf square, designs for, 48, 51 of music, 167–70 of public architecture, generally, 123–24, 170–73, 184–85 Cromwell, Oliver, 12 Culpin & Sons, 78, 189, 190 culture. See also politics of Gothenburg, 8–11, 21–22, 25–26, 31–32 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 4, 6–8 modernism and, 185–94 monumentality and, 185, 186–94 public architecture and, 4, 6–8, 144–45, 185–94 Sweden and, 144–45 Curman, Carl, 15 Curman, Sigurd, 151 Czapek, Josef Minne af Gustafs-​festen i Götheborg, 28 Minnet, 26 Dagens nyheter Asplund interviewed in, 132, 133, funkis in, 149

Dahlbäck, Oscar, 119 Dahlbergh, Erik, 14, 15, 20, 22 Dahlqvist, H., “On account of the Courthouse’s ‘Garage Building’ ” 128 Dahlström, Axel, 58 Dance, George, 189 Dastugue, D., 82, 83, 196 Debat-​Ponsan, Jacques, 82, 83, 196 Decaux, Henri, 196 decoration. See also art; sculpture Asplund on, 43 domestic architecture and, 15, 16–17, 148 in Gothenburg, 23, 24, 26, 29, 60, 160, 166 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 94, 105, 107, 129, 135, 138, 155, 205, 206 public architecture and, 3, 7, 15, 17–18, 46, 78, 82, 107, 147, 179, 181, 184, 189, 193, 197, 199, 205, 206, 209 Delory, Gustav, 232n. 70 “Den snöiga nord,” 30 Detroit (Michigan), 51 Diaghilev, Sergei, 225n. 59 Dionisy, 233n. 86 Doisy and Galland, 193 Doge’s Palace (Venice), 143 domestic architecture, 1, 15–17, 42, 80–81, 148–50, 155 Dondel, J-​C., 187, 187 doors Gothenburg Courthouse extension, as built, 87, 92, 92, 114, 217n. 62 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, criticism of, 130, 133, 140, 203, 221n. 59 Stockholm Public Library, 112, 113 Drachman, Povl, 172–73 Dresden (Germany), Hellerau Theater, 52 drinking fountain, 114, 114 Dubuisson, Émile, 193, 193 Dudok, Willem Cachan Hôtel de Ville and, 194, 196 Hilversum Town Hall, 4, 78–79, 80, 123, 189, 193–94, 203 Leiden city hall, 175 public architecture and, generally, 85 “Du gamla, du fria,” 28, 30 Duisberg (Germany), 86 Dunkirk (Belgium), 193 Duomo (Siena), 100 Duval, Charles, 193

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East India Company, 21, 24 East India House, 22, 25 Edman, Viktor, 151 Edström, Olle, 166, 229n. 125, 230n. 140, 230n. 146 Ehrensvärd, Carl August, 18 Ekman, C. G., 108 Ekman, Pehr Johan, 24 Elektriska AB Magnet, 181 elevator as built, 94, 96, 97 criticism and, 135 designs for, 56, 65, 66, 71 Eliasson, John, 65, 157 Elliot, Holger, 119, 221n. 47 Elsa Gullbergs Textil och Inrednigar AB, 102 Empress of France, 93 Engelbrektsson, Engelbrekt, 110, 153 Engfors, Christina, 208 England. See Great Britain Engström, Sten, 30 Enkhuizen, 46 Ericson, Bjerke, and Svensson, 41 Ericson, Harald, 155, 155 Ericson, Sigfrid Gothenburg Art Museum, 50, 50 Gothenburg City Theater and, 60 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 162 Gustaf Adolf square and, 33, 33, 36, 41 Erik of Pomerania, 151 Eriksson, Nils Einar Gothenburg Concert Hall (Konserthuset), 50, 54, 67, 126, 130, 142, 147, 158, 159, 162–66, 163, 164, 207, 219n. 108 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 62, 130–31, 145 Thule Building, 130, 132, 141, 156, 157 Erixson, Sven X:et, “The Architects and the Arts,” 71–72 Erlach, J. B. Fischer von, 113 Eugen, prince, 28, 147 Exchange Building function of, 24, 27–28 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 165 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 129–30 Gustaf Adolf square and, 4, 24, 24, 25, 32, 43, 44 translation for, 213n. 18 Exercisheden, 162 façades as built, 4, 5, 87–92, 90, 91, 106, 107, 111

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color of, 125, 127, 133 criticism of, 125, 127–39, 141–43 designs for, 35, 36, 37–38, 46–47, 47, 51–52, 52, 58–59, 59, 61–64, 62, 63, 64, 71–75, 73, 75, 88 influence of, 207–8 Fagerberg, Artur, 134 Falköping, 156 Farmer’s Party, 150 Fascism, 3, 85, 187 Ferri, Enrico, 108 film, 7, 74, 148, 166, 222n. 110, 227n. 37, 229n. 104 Fischer, Theodor, 180, 187 Flegenheimer, Julien, 79 Fleury, Jean, 198 Flirt, funkis och fullträffar (film), 148 Fogelberg, Bengt Erland, 26, 27, 31 Fokine, Michael, 225n. 59 folkhem, 145, 153 F. O. Petersson & Sons, 155, 155 Foucart, Bruno, 82 Frampton, Kenneth, 79 France, 1, 3, 123, 185, 192–94, 195–99 Frankl, Paul, 7 Principles of Architectural History, 7, 111 Franzell, Sten, 51 Fredlund, Björn, 217n. 62 Frendberg, Torsten, 134 Friberger, Erik, 156, 175–76, 175, 194 Frick, Ernst, 58 Fry, Maxwell, 123 Fuhre, Arvid, 195 functionalism. See also modernism Asplund and, generally, 7, 56, 57 domestic architecture and, 15 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 147, 162–64 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 56, 62, 97, 130, 133, 135, 136, 139–40, 156–57 identity and, 191 monumentality and, 3, 188, 200–201 public architecture and, 78, 79, 81–83, 85, 86, 123, 146, 147–50, 151, 176, 179, 181, 187, 188, 191, 196, 197, 199, 200–201, 202, 206, 209 Stockholm Exhibition and, 146, 148, 149 Thule Building and, 156 funkis in Gothenburg, 156–57, 159–60, 161 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 129, 131, 133

modernism and, 146, 147–50 museums and, 151 portrait in funkis style (Strix), 148. Funkquist, Anders, 161 furnishings criticism and, 135 designs for, 67–69, 68, 69, 70–71, 70, 72 Fyrtornet and Släpvagnen (comic actors), 148 Gahn, Wolter, 56, 147 Gamla svenska städer, 154 Gärde, Natanael, 108–9 Gärdesstaden (Stockholm), 227n. 9 Gärdet (Stockholm), 109 Garnier, Tony Asplund and, 78 Boulogne-​Billancourt Hôtel de Ville, 4, 81–83, 82, 83, 196, 198, 203 Giroud and, 199 on town halls, 197 Garofalo, Raffaelle, 108 Gate, Simon, 179 Geers, Louis de, 37 Geijer, Erik Gustaf, Odalbonden (The farmer of Odal), 12–13 Geneva (Switzerland), 79–81, 81 Gentofte (Denmark), 3 Gentzel, Ludde, 128 Gerhard, Karl, 143 Karl Gerhards glädjehus (Karl Gerhard’s brothel), 143 Sommar revy (Summer revue), 126 Germany Asplund visits, 113 music in, 168 politics in, 109, 110 public architecture in, 3, 84, 85–87, 172, 185, 188, 201–2 Gershwin, George, 230n. 134 Giedion, Sigfried, 79, 80, 112, 113 Spätbarocker und romantischer Klassizismus, 114 Gilbert, Cass, 209 Giroud, Charles, 196 Giroud, Robert, 198–99, 199 Giurgola, Romaldo, 208 Glamorgan County Hall (Wales), 199–200, 200 Glatz, Hertha, 169 Glimstedt, Herman, 167 Gonse, Emmanuel, 193 Göransson, Viking, 227n. 13, 227n. 15, 227n. 22

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Gormsen, Ove, 67, 155–56, 156 Götaplatsen, 9, 159 Asplund and, 11 as cultural forum, 10 development of, 11, 48, 49, 54, 126, 130, 157–58, 162–66 Gothenburg Art Museum on, 50, 50, 59–60, 60, 61 Poseidon at, 73 Götaverken, 49 Göteborgs Konsthall, 51, 169 Göteborgs morgonpost Asplund’s obituary in, 134–35, 144 Avenyn in, 160 Gothenburg City Theater in, 60 Gothenburg Courthouse extension in, 53, 104, 128, 134–35, 137, 137 music in, 168 Thule Building in, 156 Göteborgs högskola. See Gothenburg University Göteborgs Handels– och Sjöfartstidningen (also called Handelstidningen) architectural exhibition discussed, 51 Gothenburg City Theater in, 60 Gothenburg Concert Hall in, 162– 64, 165, 166 Gothenburg Courthouse extension in, 53, 55, 63, 77, 104, 124, 125–31, 132, 135, 139, 141–42, 142–43, 144, 159, 219n. 118 Gustaf Adolf square in, 51, 126–27 Gustav Adolf II’s statue in, 28 music in, 167–68 Romdahl in, generally, 126, 154 Göteborgs-​posten. See also G.-​P. building Åhrén lecture, 148 City theater criticized, 60 cultural criticism in, 170 funkis reported in, 156 music reviewers in, 168 Gothenburg Asplund in, 10–11 criticism in, 124–32, 133–39, 141–43 culture of, 8–11, 21–22, 25–26, 31–32 foundation of, 20 funkis and, 148, 159–60, 161 Jubilee Exhibition, 28, 36, 40, 42, 47–48, 49–50, 54, 59, 126, 154, 158, 162 maps of, ii, 9 modernism and, 50–51, 144–45, 154–66



monumentality and, 50–51, 54 music in, 153–54, 166–70 populations of, 8, 21, 22, 26, 32, 34, 50 public architecture and, 144–45, 154–66, 194–95 Stockholm compared to, 8, 9, 10, 11, 22 town halls in, 4, 24, 25, 130 Gothenburg Art Museum, 50, 50, 57, 59, 158, 159, 162 Gothenburg Bar Society, 58 Gothenburg Building Society, 142 Gothenburg Central Post Office, 38, 39, 54 Gothenburg City Council Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 165–66 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, criticism of, 127, 128, 131–32, 134, 135, 137–39, 154 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, designs for, 52, 55, 58, 61–64, 72–73, 74–77, 111 Governor’s House and, 32–34 Stora torget and, 26 Gothenburg City Museum, 25 Gothenburg City Theater (Stadsteater), 59–60, 60, 61, 158, 159, 162, 166 Gothenburg Concert Hall (Konserthuset), 50, 159, 163, 164 development of, 50, 54, 158 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 67, 130, 142, 219n. 108 influence of, 126, 207 modernism and, 147, 162–66 music and, 166 Gothenburg Courthouse extension acoustics in, 100–101, 140 art in, 101–5, 103, 104 as built, 5, 87–105, 88, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 99, 100, 102 café, 8, 64, 90, 97, 135, 144 clock, 8, 94, 95, 100, 116, 117, 119, 120 color of, 125, 127, 133 competition for, 4, 10, 33–34, 35, 36–40, 37, 38, 39, 174 courtrooms, 8, 64, 65, 66, 66, 67–69, 68, 69, 70, 71, 76, 97, 100, 101, 102 courtyard and, 36, 39, 44–45, 47, 61, 64, 65, 76–77, 77, 87, 89, 90–92, 91, 97 criticism of, 5, 37–40, 61–64, 73–74, 76, 104, 120, 124–43, 144–45,

154, 159, 161–62, 171, 204–6, 206–7, 221n. 59, 221n. 61 culture and, 4, 6–8 decoration and, 94, 105, 107, 129, 135, 138, 155, 205, 206 designs for, competition, 35, 36–40, 37, 38, 39, 174 designs for, final, 6–7, 23, 36, 55–56, 58–59, 59, 61–77, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 89, 98, 156–57, 162 designs for, Gustaf Adolf square and, 35–36, 37, 46–47, 47, 48, 51–55, 52, 53, 174 designs for, overviews of, 4–6, 35–36, 106–7 doors, 87, 92, 92, 114, 130, 133, 140, 203, 217n. 62, 221n. 59 drinking fountain, 114, 114 elevator, 56, 65, 66, 71, 94, 96, 97, 135 façades, 4, 5, 35, 36, 37–38, 46–47, 47, 51–52, 52, 58–59, 59, 61–64, 62, 63, 64, 71–75, 73, 75, 87–92, 88, 90, 91, 106, 107, 111, 125, 127–39, 141–43, 207–8 functionalism and, 56, 62, 97, 130, 133, 135, 136, 139–40, 156–57 furnishings in, 67–69, 68, 69, 70–71, 70, 72, 135 Gustaf Adolf square and, 4, 35–36, 40–55, 63 hall, interior, 8, 36, 47, 52–53, 53, 64–67, 65, 66, 67, 69–70, 89, 90, 92, 93–101, 93, 94, 95, 96, 135, 139–41, 142 inauguration for, 139 influence of, 6, 173, 181, 182, 202–11 interiors, 8, 36, 38, 52–53, 53, 64–71, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 75–77, 77, 92–105, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 99, 100, 102, 111, 114–16, 114, 115, 117, 118, 134–35, 139–41, 144 law and, 6, 67–69, 94, 101, 105–7, 111, 114–16, 119, 120–22, 139–41 lighting for, 68, 69–70, 71, 75–76, 89, 90, 92–94, 97, 100, 101, 102, 116, 120, 129–30, 137, 139, 226n. 106 materials and, 37, 63, 70, 92, 94 modernism and, 6, 62–63, 64–67, 71–72, 73–75, 87–105, 107, 114– 16, 119, 120–22, 127–29, 139–43, 144–45, 174–75, 188, 202–11 monumentality and, 6, 62–63, 76, 93–94, 106–7, 130, 142–43

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Gothenburg Courthouse extension (cont’d) movement and, 94, 114–16, 120 offices, 8, 64, 97 place and, 67–69 politics and, 6–8, 105, 133–34 postmodernism and, 6, 174, 208–11 public architecture and, 4–8, 11, 78–87, 174–75, 188, 202–11 scale and, 35, 40, 61, 81, 92, 100, 106–7, 141 scales of justice, 114, 116, 119, 120 as “The Scandal House,” 128 sculpture for, 71–77, 73, 74, 76, 77, 87, 105, 111, 114, 119, 129, 132, 133, 137–39, 155, 174 staircase, 8, 36, 47, 48, 53, 56, 64, 65, 65, 66, 90, 93–94, 96, 97, 114–16, 115, 117, 120, 144 structural expression in, 64–67 towers and, 97, 116 translation for, 213n. 18 windows, 38, 46, 52–53, 56, 62–63, 62, 64, 70, 71, 75–76, 76, 84, 87, 88–93, 89, 91, 93, 97, 101, 125, 127, 130, 131, 133, 135, 194 Gothenburg Large Customs House, 171 Gothenburg’s Art Society, 26 Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra, 28, 131, 162, 166 Gothenburg University, 73, 154 Goujon, Lazare, 198–99 Governor’s House, 23–24, 23, 25, 27, 32–34, 54, 61 G.-​P. Building, 67, 155, 156 Grate, Erik, 5, 72, 76, 87, 137 Graves, Michael, “The Swedish Connection,” 208 Great Britain journalism in, 123–24, 168, 230n. 151 public architecture in, 185, 189–92, 195, 199–201 Greenwich (London, England), 78, 189, 190, 224n. 5 Grévy, Jules, 188 Grieg, Edvard, 166 Grimley, Daniel M., 166–67 Grinberg, Alexander Z., 78, 79 Gripsholm, 16 Großstadt, 50, 51 Gropius, Walter, 158 Grünewald, Isaac, 229n. 105 Grut, Torben, 16, 16, 17 Guards Building, 130 The Guilty and the Good (Johnsson), 72, 74–75, 76

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Gullberg, Elsa, 102–5, 103, 104, 149 Gustaf V, 28 Gustaf VI Adolf, 226n. 4 Gustaf Adolf (Strindberg), 30 Gustaf Adolfsgatan. See Avenyn Gustaf Adolf square flagpoles at, 73 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 4, 35–36, 37, 46–47, 51–55, 63, 87, 88, 89, 92, 106, 127–43 Gustav Adolf II statute erected in, 26–32 Göteborgs Handels– och Sjöfartstidningen on, 126 Jubilee Exhibition and, 40, 42, 47–48, 49–50, 74 map of, 9 redesign of, 11, 32–34, 33, 35–36, 40–55, 40, 41, 42, 45, 46, 49, 174 as Stora torget, 20–26, 21, 24, 25, 44 Gustaf Vasa Church (Stockholm), 112 Gustav III, king of Sweden, 51 Gustav Adolf, crown prince, 28 Gustav Adolf II, king of Sweden Gothenburg founded by, 20 Gustav Adolfsdagen, 29–30, 29, 41, 110–11, 134, 153 Jubilee Exhibition and, 28 religion and, 30 statue of, 24, 26–32, 27, 32, 40, 43, 44, 48 Gustav Adolfsdagen, 29–30, 29, 41, 110–11, 134, 153 Gustavian theater, 147 Hagberg, Jonas, 22, 24 Hägerström, Axel, 117, 118 Hahr, August, 142 Hahr, Erik, 214n. 11 Haines, Lundberg & Waehler, 211 Håkansson, Knut, 168 hall, interior as built, 8, 90, 92, 93–101, 93, 94, 95, 96 criticism and, 135, 139–41, 142 designs for, 36, 47, 52–53, 53, 64–67, 65, 66, 67, 69–70, 89 Hallman, Per Olaf, 44 Halmstad Appeltofft Building, 147, 178, 178, 180 Courthouse. See also town hall in, governmental funds in, 173 Town hall in, 124, 147, 175, 177–80, 178, 181, 183, 184 Halmstad Group, 177

Hamburg (Germany), 46 Hammersmith (London, England), 189 Handelstidningen. See Göteborgs Handels– och Sjöfartstidningen Hansson, G. Henry, 58 Hansson, Per Albin, 109–10, 145 Hårleman, Carl, 22 Harris, Alexandra, 185 Harris, E. Vincent, 199–200, 200, 201 Hässelholm, 231n. 31 Hastings, Hubert de Cronin, 200 Haussmann, Georges-​Eugène, 158, 160, 196 Heden parade ground, 162 Hedqvist, Paul, 176 Heidenstam, Verner von, 39 Hellerau Theater (Dresden), 52 Hellers, Gustaf Adolf, 135, 137, 138–39 Hellner, Johannes, 226n. 4 Hellquist, Thomas, 208–9 Helsingborg, 162, 163, 164, 171, 195 Helsinør (Denmark), 204 Henning, Gerhard, 77, 77, 91 Henningsen, Poul, 172–73, 204 “Vi är själva historia,” (“We are our history”), 204 High Court, 119 Hilversum Town Hall (Holland), 80 criticism of, 123, 193–94 influence of, 189 modernism and, 78–79 monumentality and, 3, 4 psychology of, 203 Hindemith, Paul, 131, 156, 169 Hitler, Adolf, 86–87 Hjelmqvist, Fredrijk, 51 Höger, Fritz, 220n. 31 Hökerberg, Otar, 36 Holm, Hans Jørgen, 16 Holy Trinity Church (Kristianstad), 16 Holzhausen, Carl Johan, 135–37 Holzmeister, Clemens, 86 Home Exhibition (1917), 106 Homer, Illiad, 112 Hornsey (London, England), 78, 123, 189, 190 Houltz, Anders, 49 House of the Nobles (Stockholm), 37, 105, 181 House of the Soviets (Nizhnii Novgorod), 78, 79 Howitt, Thomas Cecil, 232n. 57 Hultin, Olof, 208 Hummel, Roger, 196 Hylander, Tofte, 176 Hypoteksföreningens hus, 24

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iconography. See decoration Icough, H. W. H., 189 identity, 12–20, 185–94. See also culture inauguration, decision not to hold, 139 Indy, Vincent d,’ 169 Ingeborg, princess, 28 interiors as built, 8, 77, 92–105, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 99, 100, 102, 111, 114–16, 114, 115, 117, 118 criticism and, 134–35, 139–41, 144 designs for, 36, 38, 52–53, 53, 64–71, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 75–77 International Society for Contemporary Music, 169 Iofan, Boris, 84 Isberg, E. B., 36 Italy Asplund visits, 113 politics in, 109, 110 public architecture in, 3, 78, 84–85, 172, 184, 185, 206–7 Izenour, Steven, 210 Jackson, Anthony, 192 Jacobsen, Arne Aarhus City Hall, 3, 172–73, 172, 173, 205 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 6, 142, 205 Jacobsson, Malte, 165 James, Charles Holloway, 189–91, 191 Jansenism, 82 Jantelagen, 144–45 Järntorget, 73, 126 Jarzombek, Mark, 233n. 102 Jeanneret, Pierre, 81 Jeanson, Gunnar, 168 Jerram, Leif, 202 Johansson, Cyrillus, 54, 175, 180–81, 180, 195 Ludvika, town hall, 124, 173, 175, 180–81, 180, 195 Mjölby, town hall, 195, 231n. 24 Johansson, Gotthard on Avenyn, 161 as critic, generally, 170, 224n. 28, 230n. 149 on Gothenburg Concert Hall, 147 on Royal Academy exhibition, 86 on Stockholm Exhibition, 146 John Ericssonsgatan (Stockholm), 148 Johnson, Stephen, 167 Johnsson, Ivar, 72, 74–75, 76

Jones, Peter Blundell, 47, 209 Jönköping, 14, 15 Jönsson, Bengt Johan, 176 Jørgensen, Thorvald, 3 Josephson, Ragnar, 165, 170, 230n. 149, 231n. 18 review of Gothenburg Courthouse extension, 139–40 Jubilee Exhibition (1923) Götaplatsen and, 36, 54, 59, 158, 162 Gustaf Adolf square and, 28, 40, 42, 47–48, 49–50, 74 Göteborgs Handels– och Sjöfartstidningen on, 126 Stockholm Exhibition and, 154 Justice, 121, 121 Justice Building (Berlin), 220n. 31 justice, scales of, 114, 116, 119, 120 Kahn, Louis, 208 Kallman, McKinnell & Knowles, 210 Kalmar, 16 Kämpebron, 126, 129 Kanneworff, Poul, 166 Karl-​Fredrik regnar (film), 150 Karl Johan School, 10–11, 10, 72 Karlskoga, 183–84, 184, 202 Karl XV, king of Sweden, 26, 28, 29 Kathreiner-​Hochhaus (Berlin), 202 Key, Ellen, 15, 229n. 109 Kinberg, Olof, 108, 121 Basic Problems of Criminality, 121 Kjellgren, Josef, Människor kring en bro (People around a bridge), 104–5 Kobb, August, 158 Kommendantshuset. See Governor’s House Kooperativa förbundets arkitektkontor, 106 Köpmansgatan as built, 87–89, 90, 101 criticism and, 129, 130, 132 designs and, 35, 64, 88 Korsør (Denmark), 205 Kremlin, 175 Kristiania (Norway), 28 Kristianstad, 129, 173, 175, 176–77, 177 Kristina, Queen of Sweden, 12 Kristine Church Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and, 22, 22 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 35, 64, 87, 90, 116, 118, 119, 120, 121 Governor’s House and, 33



Gustaf Adolf square and, 4, 24–25, 25, 31, 43, 44–45 Krogh, Christian, 185 Krüger, Ernst, 33 Kungliga tekniska högskolan (Royal Institute of Technology, Stockholm), 56 Kungsbacka, 156, 175–76, 175, 194, 201 Kungsgatan (Stockholm), 159 Kungsportsavenyn. See Avenyn Küstrin (Poland), 86 Kviberg crematorium, 136, 137, 139 Läckö, Castle, 16 Lagerlöf, Selma, 229n. 109 Lallerstedt, Erik, 36 Landskrona, 13 Långholmen Prison (Stockholm), 108 Laprade, Albert, 1 Larsson, Carl, 15 Laub, Thomas, 167 law courthouses and, 6, 105–7 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 6, 67–69, 94, 101, 105–7, 111, 114–16, 119, 120–22, 139–41 modernism and, 6, 105, 107, 116–22, 139–41 monumentality and, 6, 106–7 politics and, 106, 108–11, 119 public architecture and, 81–83, 105–7 religion and, 101, 116 in Sweden, 12 theories of, 107–9, 116–22 Laws of the Kingdom of Sweden, 101, 119 League of Nations (Geneva), 3, 79–81, 81 Leche, Gunnar, 181–82, 181, 182, 195 Le Corbusier Åhrén and, 158 Asplund influenced by, 78, 93, 94, 111 Avenyn and, 161 League of Nations and, 79–81, 81 Mass-​Production House, 94 Musée d’art moderne and, 187 Palace of the Soviets and, 175 Pavillon Suisse, 186, 186, 188 psychology and, 203–4 regionalism and, 185 in Stockholm, 86, 147 Une maison–un palais, 80–81, 188, 204 Villa Savoye, 93, 94, 223n. 111

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Leeds (England), 200 Leeuwarden (Holland), 46 Lefèvre, Camille, 79 Leibniz, Gottfried, 114 Leiden (Holland), 79, 175 Leipzig (Germany), 86, 86 Leitenstorfer, Herman, 124, 201–2, 203 Leo, J. E., 33 Le Portel (France), 193 Leroux, Morice, 198 Leseine, Paul and Albert, 193 Les Milandes (Paris), 162 Letarouilly, Paul, 49 Lewerentz, Sigurd, 111–12, 112, 145, 183, 223n. 112 Social Insurance Building, 183 Woodland Cemetery, 111–12, 112, 113, 121, 208, 223n. 112 Library (Stockholm), 49, 50–51, 57, 73, 112, 113, 121, 147, 153, 206 lighting as built, 89, 90, 92–94, 97, 100, 101, 102, 116, 120, 226n. 106 criticism and, 129–30, 137, 139 designs for, 68, 69–70, 71, 75–76 public architecture and, 78, 105 Lilienberg, Albert, 44, 48, 142, 158, 216n. 27 Liljevalchs Konsthall (Stockholm), 52, 54, 57 Lille (France), 4, 193, 193 Lind, Sven Ivar, 7, 186 Lindberg, Bernhard Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and, 33 criticism and, 139 designs and, 53–54, 55, 58, 61, 69, 72, 75–76, 174, 195, 217n. 62 in narrative, or “signature” (Gullberg), 104, 104 Lindberg Foundation Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 72–75, 76, 129, 139, 155 Gustaf Adolf square and, 35, 40, 42, 43, 44, 54 Lindegren, Agi, “Svenska rådhus” (“Swedish courthouses”), 214n. 20 Lindhagen, Carl, 232n. 73 Lindman, Arvid, 108 Lindström, Sune, 183–84, 184, 202 Linköping, 231n. 31 Linnman, Mats, 183 Lithander, Pehr, 133 Ljungdal, Arnold, 228n. 47 Lombroso, Cesare, 108

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London, Great Exhibition (1851), 26 Somerset House, 232n. 57 Lönnroth, Gudrun, 28 Loos, Adolf, 162 Lorensberg Theater, 126, 139, 158, 166 Ludvika, 124, 173, 175, 180–81, 180, 195 Lund, 232n. 32 Lundén, Barthold, 168 Lundkvist, Artur, 228n. 47 Lundqvist, John, 72 Lurçat, André Villejuif School, 186, 186, 188 Luther, Martin, 110, 153 “Vår gud är oss en väldig borg” (“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”), 30, 153 Lyon (France), 82 Lysekil, 15 Maegaard, Jan, 166 Mahler, Gustav, 166, 168, 169 Fourth Symphony, 168 Kindertotenlieder, 169 Mâle, Emile, 186 Malmborg, Nils, 201, 202 Malmö, 14, 151, 152, 183, 183, 202 Malmsten, Carl, 146, 149 Manchester (England), 230n. 148 Manchot, Wilhelm, 171 Mankell, Julius, 30 Mannheimer, Charlotte, 215n. 79 Mannheimer, Herman, 165 Mannheimer, Otto, 33 March, Werner, 86 Maré, Eric de, Asplund, 207 Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 3 Maritime Museum (Sjöfartsmuseet Akvariet Göteborg), 54 Maritime Museum (Stockholm), 227n. 9, 227n. 11 Markelius, Sven in acceptera, 56 collective houses and, 148, 149 Economic and Social Council chamber, 209–10, 210 Helsingborg Concert Hall, 162, 163, 164 Märta, princess, 28 Martin, Elias, 31, 43, 44, 45 Mass-​Production House (Le Corbusier), 94 Matchstick Palace (Stockholm), 57 materials Asplund on, 43 domestic architecture and, 15–16, 17



Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 166 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 37, 63, 70, 92, 94 public architecture and, 2, 4, 18, 20, 79, 86, 173, 174, 178, 188, 189, 199, 220n. 31 Mathé, Pierre, 198, 198 Mathon, Jean-​Baptiste, Joannès Chollet, René Chaussat, 78, 193, 194, 196 Mattson, Wilhelm, 67 May Day, 106, 109 McKim, Mead & White, 2 Medborgarhuset (Stockholm), 227n. 9, 227n. 18 Meeths, 148 Meyer, Hannes, 3, 79 Meyer, Peter, 3, 187 “Ueberlegungen zum Problem der Monumentalität” (“Considerations on the problem of monumentality”), 187 Milles, Carl, 50, 61, 73 Mjölby, 195, 231n. 24 Moberg, Vilhelm, Giv oss jorden!, 150 Sänkt sedebetyg, 150 Sömnlös, 150 Mock, Elizabeth, 2 modernism. See also functionalism art and, 177–80, 184, 185 Asplund and, 56–57 Avenyn and, 157–66 culture and, 185–94 domestic architecture and, 148–50, 155 Götaplatsen and, 157–58, 162–66 Gothenburg and, 50–51, 144–45, 154–66 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 162–66 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, as built, 6, 87–105, 107, 114–16, 119, 120–22 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, criticism of, 127–29, 139–43, 144–45 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, designs for, 62–63, 64–67, 71–72, 73–75 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, influence of, 174–75, 188, 202–11 Gustaf Adolf square and, 50–51 identity and, 185–94 law and, 6, 105, 107, 116–22, 139–41 lighting and, 78, 92–94

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monumentality and, 1–4, 50–51, 80–81, 84–87, 93–94, 107, 151, 185, 186–94, 200–201, 206–7 music and, 153–54, 156, 166–70 politics and, 83–87, 148–54, 175–82, 187, 188, 194–202 public architecture and, 1–4, 50–51, 56–57, 78–87, 107, 144–66, 170–73, 174–211 spartanism in, 182–85 Stockholm and, 145–47, 150–54 Stockholm Exhibition and, 145–47, 145, 154 Sweden and, 144–54, 174–88, 194– 95, 201, 204–11 town halls and, 78–79, 174–202 “Modern Progress—​National Tradition” (exhibition), 146 Moell, Sten, 161 Mogensen, Mogens, 230n. 154 Møller, Erik, 3, 172–73, 172, 173, 205 Möller, Gustav, 110, 179 Montdidier (France), 193 Montrouge (Paris, France), 196 monumentality Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and, 130 courthouses and, 2, 3, 16–20, 130 culture and, 185, 186–94 functionalism and, 3, 188, 200–201 Gothenburg and, 50–51, 54 Gothenburg City Theater and, 60 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 6, 62–63, 76, 93–94, 106–7, 130, 142–43 Gustaf Adolf square and, 50–51 identity and, 185 law and, 6, 106–7 modernism and, 1–4, 50–51, 80–81, 84–87, 93–94, 107, 151, 185, 186–94, 200–201, 206–7 politics and, 83–87 public architecture and, 1–4, 16–20, 50–51, 80–81, 84–87, 106–7, 151, 179, 181, 185, 186–94, 200–201, 206–7, 210, 211 in Sweden, 16–20 town halls and, 1, 3–4, 17–18 Mora, 15 Mora Berenguer, Francisco, 185 morality, 116–22 Morizet, André, 81–82, 83, 196 Morrison, Herbert, 195 motif. See decoration; ocean liner motif movement, 94, 111–12, 114–16, 120

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, Magic Flute, 226n. 106 M/S Kungsholm, 67 Mühlenbocks, 29 Mumford, Lewis, “The Death of the Monument,” 3 Munich (Germany), Technisches Rathaus, 201–2, 203 Munthe, Gustaf, 127–28, 132, 133, 161 Muratori, Saverio, 206–7, 207 Murray, John, 31 Musée d’art moderne (Paris), 187, 187 Museum of Modern Art (New York), 208 Museum of National Antiquities (Stockholm), 150–51 music Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 36, 131, 132–33 for Gustav Adolfsdagen, 30 modernism and, 153–54, 156, 166–70 Mussolini, Benito, 84–85 Nagy, Elemér, 207 Naked Girl (Henning), 77, 77, 91 narrative, or “signature” (Gullberg), 103–4, 104 Nässjö, 156 Näsström, Gustaf, 147, 170 Svensk funktionalism, 147 National Bank, 24 nationalism, 12–20, 185–94 National Museum (Copenhagen), 204 National Socialism, 3, 85–87, 126, 187 Natural History museum (Göteborgs Naturhistoriska Museum), 54 Nénot, Henri-​Paul, 79 Newport Civic Center (Wales), 232n. 57 New Reich Chancellery (Berlin), 85 newspaper and press criticism. See criticism New York City, 51, 168, 211 Nielsen, Carl, 166–68, 170 Niermans, Édouard and Jean, 196, 197–98, 197 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 2 Nilsson, Georg A., 231n. 16 Nilsson, Nils Peter, 13 Noormarku, Villa Mairea, 206 Nordic Museum (Stockholm), 17, 154, 171 Nordin, Hjördis, 56 Norra Hamngatan, 36, 92 Norrköping, 18, 19

Norway, 28, 30 Norwich (England), 124, 189–91, 191 Nya Lödöse, 20 Nyborg, Ivan, 58, 69, 75, 104, 104, 218n. 94 Nybygget, 155 Nyman, Herman, 161 Nyqvist, C., 36 Nyrop, Martin, 16, 16 Ny tid, 106, 128, 129, 134, 135, 168 Nystroem, Gösta, 168, 169, 228n. 52 Nyström, Per, 110–11 ocean liner motif, 57, 97, 135, 144 Ödeen, Kjell, 183, 183 Odhner, Clas Theodor, 30 offices, 8, 64, 97 Ohlon, Sven, 127 Öhrström, Edvin, 179 “The Old and the New.” See acceptera (Asplund et al.) Olivecrona, Karl, 120 Law as Fact, 117–19 Olsson, Alfred J., 161 Olsson, Nils, 159, 160 Onsala, 148 Örebo, 14 ornamentation. See decoration Orrefors, 49 Orwell, George, 232n. 57 Oscarskyrkan, 171 Oslo (Norway), 214n. 46 Ossiannilsson, Karl Gustaf, 153 Östermalm, 171 Östberg, Ragnar Asplund taught by, 112 Blue Hall, 52 Götaplatsen and, 11, 126 Halmstad Town Hall and, 179 Maritime Museum, 227n. 9, 227n. 11 on national architecture, 214n. 23 Stockholm Town Hall, 18, 189–91 Uppsala Courthouse and, 181 Östersund, 18, 231n. 24, 231n. 31 Östra Hamnkanalen, 21, 22, 44, 48 Otterhällan, 155, 155 Övergaard, Ole, 227n. 31 Ozenfant, Amedée, 204 Padua (Italy), Courthouse, 211 Paestum (Italy), 107 Palace of the Soviets, 84, 84, 175 Palais de Justice (Marseille), 3 Palazzo Chiericati (Vicenza), 176 Palazzo Contarini del Bovolò (Venice), 100

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Palazzo della Cancelleria (Rome), 38 Palazzo della Democrazia Cristiana (Rome), 207, 207 Palazzo del Littorio (Rome), 85 Palazzo di Giustizia (Messina), 85 Palazzo di Giustizia (Milan), 85, 85 Palazzo Vecchio (Florence), 184 Palladio, Andrea, 176 Palmstedt, Carl, 26 paragraph rug (Gullberg), 103, 103 Pardal Monteiro, Porfirio, 186 Parliament (Stockholm). See Riksdag Paris, 3, 196, 229n. 96 Patent Office Building (Stockholm), 181 Paul, Bruno, 202 Paulsson, Gregor in acceptera, 56 Den nya arkitekturen, 2–3, 18–20, 52–53, 107, 182 on monumentality, 2–3 Stockholm Exhibition and, 56, 102, 145, 146, 147 Uppsala Courthouse and, 181–82, 182 Pavillon Suisse (Paris), 186, 186, 188 Perugia, Palazzo dei Priori, 60 Peruzzi, Baldassare, 92 Petersen, Sophus, 158 Petzäll, Åke, 121–22 Piacentini, Marcello, 1, 85, 85 Piazza San Marco (Venice), 49, 51 Pinet, Jean-​Robert, 198 place, 42–43, 67–69. See also space Poissy (France), 93, 94, 196–97, 198, 198 Polhem, Christopher, 221n. 44 politics. See also criticism; culture courthouses and, 13–14 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 6–8, 105, 133–34 law and, 108–11, 119 modernism and, 83–87, 148–54, 175–82, 187, 188, 194–202 monumentality and, 83–87 public architecture and, 1–4, 6–8, 83–87, 148–54, 175–82, 187, 188, 194–202, 208 religion, 13–14 of Sweden, 12–14 Porne, Åke, 58–59, 62 Poseidon (statue), 50, 61, 73 Posener, Julius, 185 postmodernism, 6, 174, 208–11 psychologism, 120 psychology, 119–20, 121–22, 202–4, 205–6, 223n. 140 public architecture

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art and, 177–80, 184 competitions for, development of, 170–73, 199–200 courthouses, 14–20 criticism of, generally, 123–24, 170–73 culture and, 4, 6–8, 144–45, 185–94 decoration and, 3, 7, 15, 17–18, 46, 78, 82, 107, 147, 179, 181, 184, 189, 193, 197, 199, 205, 206, 209 domestic architecture and, 1, 15–17, 80–81 functionalism and, 78, 79, 81–83, 85, 86, 123, 146, 147–50, 151, 176, 179, 181, 187, 188, 191, 196, 197, 199, 200–201, 202, 206, 209 Gothenburg and, 144–45, 154–66 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 4–8, 11, 78–87, 174–75, 188, 202–11 Gustaf Adolf square and, 50–51 identity and, 185–94 law and, 81–83, 105–7 lighting in, 78, 105 materials in, 2, 4, 17–18, 20, 79, 86, 173, 174, 178, 188, 189, 199, 220n. 31 modernism and, 1–4, 50–51, 56–57, 78–87, 107, 144–66, 170–73, 174–211 monumentality and, 1–4, 16–20, 50–51, 80–81, 84–87, 106–7, 151, 179, 181, 185, 186–94, 200–201, 206–7, 210, 211 politics and, 1–4, 6–8, 83–87, 148– 54, 175–82, 187, 188, 194–202, 208 scale in, 2, 17–18, 78, 81, 84, 85, 161, 174, 178, 188, 199 spartanism in, 182–85 Stockholm and, 18–20, 145–47, 150–54 Stockholm Exhibition and, 145–47, 145 Sweden and, 14–20, 83–84, 144–54, 174–88, 194–95, 201, 204–11 towers in, 14, 18, 78, 82, 147, 151, 157, 172, 173, 176, 181, 189, 193, 193, 197, 199, 200, 201, 202, 202, 213n. 7 town halls in, 14, 17–18, 78–79, 123, 174–202 Puteaux (Paris, France), 196, 197–98, 197 Quensel, Nils, 221n. 50

Rabe, Julius, 167–68, 168–69 rådhus, 13. See also courthouses; town halls Raphael, Max, “Är den moderna arkitekturen internationell?” (“Is modern architecture international?”), 186, 186 Rasmussen, Steen Eiler, 142, 205 reciprocity, 120 Reich Chancellery, addition (Berlin), 220n. 31 Reilly, Charles on Harris, 199, 200 on modernism, 185 on monumentality, 2 on Swansea Guildhall, 189, 189 on town hall problem, 1, 78, 123, 200 in United States, 2, 51, 230n. 151 Reimers, Gerd and Lennart, 229n. 125 Reinius, Leif, 184–85, 188 religion, 13–14, 30, 101, 110, 116 Rembrandt van Rijn, 119 Réunion internationale d’architecture, 185 Richards, J. M., 200 Richardson, H. H., 216n. 34 Riegl, Alois, 2, 112, 113 Rikets Sänders Bank, 26, 27 Riksdag (Parliament, Stockholm), 133, 151–54 Rissén, Nils, 62 Roberts, Michael, 105 Roche, Pierre de la, 17 Röda dagen (film), 150 Rohe, Mies van der, 86 Röhsska Museum, 156, 161 Romano, Giulio, 92 Romare, Bengt, 151, 151 Romdahl, Axel L. acceptera and, 57, 154–55 Avenyn and, 161 bust of, 216n. 6 on criticism, 170 in cultural history, 228n. 58 Gothenburg City Theater and, 60 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 165 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 39–40, 53, 73–74, 127, 132, 139 Gustaf Adolf square and, 51, 74 in Göteborgs Handels– och Sjöfartstidningen, generally, 126, 154 modernism and, 154–55 Det monumentala sinnelaget (The monumental disposition), 107

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preservation board and, 225n. 51 “Reagera” (React), 154–55 Rome, 49, 207 Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza, 45 Rosenberg, Hilding, 168, 169 Rosendal building, 176 Roth, Alfred, 155 Rotterdam (Holland), 9 Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques, 13 Rouzé, Albert, 193 Rowland, Stephen, 189–91, 191 Royal Academy of Fine Arts (Stockholm), 86 Royal Palace (Stockholm), 38, 112, 147 Royal Institute of British Architects, 171 Royal Institute of Technology (Stockholm). See Kungliga tekniska högskolan Rubenson, R., 28 Rudberg, Eva, 146 Ruskin, John, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, 2 Russia, 84, 148–49, 172 Rüstringen (Germany), 220n. 31 Ryberg, Ture, 231n. 16 Rydberg, Viktor, 31–32 Ryske snuvan (film), 150 Sabaneyev, Leonid, 169 Sachs, J. E., 226n. 4 Sagebiel, Ernst, 192 Sahlgren Building, 22, 25 Salengro, Roger, 232n. 70 Salle Pleyel (Paris), 229n. 96 Samuelsson, Karl Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 36, 64, 131, 218n. 85 Gustaf Adolf square and, 48, 49, 50, 53 status of, 195 Sandberg, Aron, 18 Sandemose, Aksel, En flykting korsar sitt spår (A fugitive crosses his tracks), 144–45 Sant’Elia, Antonio, 3 Säynätsalo (Finland), 206, 206 Scala del Bòvolo (Venice), 47 scale. See also monumentality Asplund on, 43, 57 Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and, 22 domestic architecture and, 15, 17 Gothenburg Concert Hall and, 166 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 35, 40, 61, 81, 92, 100, 106–7, 141



Gustaf Adolf square and, 43, 49, 50 public architecture and, 2, 17–18, 78, 81, 84, 85, 161, 174, 178, 188, 199 Stora torget and, 20 scales of justice, 114, 116, 119, 120 “The Scandal House,” 128 Schaerbeek (Belgium), 82 Scherman, Georg, 151, 151 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich, 49 Schlyter, Karl, 109, 119 “Avfolka fängelserna––bygg inte nya!” (“Empty the prisons–– build no new ones!”), 109 Schmarsow, August, 112, 113 Schmidt, Hans, 187 Schoenberg, Arnold, Gurrelieder and Pierrot Lunaire, 169 Schorske, Carl, 7 Schoszberger, Hans, 87 Schulze-​Naumburg, Paul, 87 Schumacher, Fritz, 46 Schusev, Aleksei, 84 Scott Brown, Denise, 210 sculpture. See also art; decoration Gothenburg Courthouse extension, as built, 77, 77, 87, 105, 111, 114, 119, 174 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, criticism of, 129, 132, 133, 137–39, 155 Gothenburg Courthouse extension, designs for, 71–77, 73, 74, 76 at Karl Johan School, 219n. 107 Kristianstad courthouse and, 176–77 Seattle (Washington), 208 Sébille, George, 196 Secretariat Building (New York), 210, 210 Sedlmayr, Hans, Architektur Borrominis, 113–14 Sée, Charles-​Edouard, 83, 203 Seeger, Hermann, 85–86 Ségers, Joseph, 193 Segerstedt, Torgny career and philosophy, 125–26 Götaplatsen and, 157 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 55–56, 125–26, 130, 137, 139, 141–42, 144, 154, 159, 174, 204 public architecture and, 120, 208 Seglora church tower, 18 Seidler, Jobst, 220n. 31 Selander, Sten, En dag: dikter (A day: poems), 153



Staden och andra dikter (The city and other poems), 153 Sellman, Olle, 226n. 90 Sheffield (England), 3–4, 199–200, 201 Shostakovich, Dmitri, Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District (Shostakovich), 169 Sibelius, Jean, 166, 169 Simmel, Georg, 119–20, 186 The Philosophy of Money, 120 Siry, Joseph, 7 Sitte, Camillo Der Städtebau nach seinen künstlerischen Grundsätzen, 44 German cathedrals and, 215n. 77 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 100, 130, 221n. 45 Gustaf Adolf square and, 41–42, 44–46, 47, 48, 50, 51, 53, 216n. 8 Lilienberg and, 158 Sjögren, Nils, 112 Skandia. See Asplund Skansen (Stockholm), 18, 147 Skansen Kronan, 20 Skellefteå, 184 Skeppsbrohuset, 67, 155, 155 SKF, 49 Skokloster, 16 Soane, John, 189 Social Democracy Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 6, 105, 133–34 law and, 106, 109–11 modernism and, 100–101, 150, 153–54 public architecture and, 84, 148–50, 208 Social Insurance Building (Stockholm), 183 society. See culture Söderberg, Johan, 134 Södergren, Arvid, 9 Söderköping, 213n. 8 Södra Hamngatan, 48, 49 Søllerød, 205 Solna, 113, 221n. 44 Southampton (England) Civic Center, 191–92, 192 Soviet Union. See Russia space, 111–14. See also place Spain, 84, 109 spartanism, 182–85 Speer, Albert, 85 Spirellasalongen, 161 Stadtpark (Hamburg), 46 Stafford, 208

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staircase as built, 8, 90, 93–94, 96, 97, 114–16, 115, 117, 120 criticism and, 144 designs for, 36, 47, 48, 53, 56, 64, 65, 65, 66 Stalin, Joseph, 84 Stam, Mart, 187 State Art Council, 219n. 108 State Bacteriological Laboratory. See Asplund State Tobacco Warehouse, 54 Stendahl, Gerdt, 58, 61, 63, 131 Stenhammar, Wilhelm, 28, 166, 168, 170 Sterner, Nils, 175, 177–80, 178 Stettin, 86 Stille, Arvid, 227n. 9 Stillman, Cecil G., 189 St. John Wilson, Colin, 209 Stockholm courthouses in, 13, 14, 18–20, 19, 36, 47, 69, 140, 151 Exhibition, 56, 57, 87, 93, 97, 102, 103, 145–47, 145, 148, 149, 154, 225n. 55 Gothenburg compared to, 8, 9, 10, 11, 22 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 132–33 Housing Competition, 106 journalism in, 230n. 152 May Day in, 109 modernism and, 145–47, 150–54 monumentality and, 18–20 populations of, 12, 214n. 46 public architecture and, 18–20, 145–47, 150–54, 195 restaurants in, 76 skyscrapers in, 216n. 34, 233n. 89 town halls in, 18, 52, 107, 179, 189–91 Stockholm Exhibition Asplund and, 56, 57, 87, 93, 145, 146–47, 149, 225n. 55 functionalism and, 146, 148, 149 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 97, 103 modernism and, 145–47, 145, 154 Paradiset, 145 Paulsson and, 56, 102, 145, 146, 147 Svea Rike (Kingdom of the Swedes) pavilion, 145, 146–47 Stoltz, Carl-​Axel, 151, 152, 183 Stora Hamnkanalen Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 36, 37

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Gustaf Adolf square and, 31, 44, 49 Kämpebron, 126, 129 Stora torget and, 21, 22, 22, 31 Stora teatern, 166, 169 Stora torget, 20–26, 21. See also Gustaf Adolf square Storkyrkan, 153 Strindberg, August, 10, 30, 107–8 Tjänstekvinnans son (The son of a servant), 10 Strindberg, Axel, 147–48 Strindberg, Tore, 72, 73 Strix, 148 Ström, Knut, 127, 166 Strömberg, H. J., 22 Strömbom, Sixten, 43–44, 51, 130 Ströms, 67, 155–56, 156 structural expression, 64–67. See also columns Sturehof (Stockholm), 76 Sullivan, Louis, 7 Sundahl, Eskil, 56 Sundbärg, Fredrik, 44 Sundbärg, Gunnar, 7, 87, 142, 187–88, 230n. 154 Sundbyberg, 201, 202 Svendsen, Johan, 166 Svenska arkitekters riksförbund, 171 Svenska dagbladet, 86 Asplund interviewed in, 132–33 Avenyn in, 161 Johansson in, 170 Markelius defends Collective house in, 149 review of courthouse extension in, 139–40 Svenska Lloyd, 54, 55 Svenska slöjdföreningen. See Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts Svenska teknologföreningen (Swedish Society of Technology), 154 Swansea (Wales) Guildhall, 189, 189 Swedbank, 27 Sweden courthouses in, 13–20 criticism in, 124 culture and, 144–45 domestic architecture in, 15–17 law in, 12 map of, 13 modernism and, 144–54, 174–88, 194–95, 201, 204–11 monumentality and, 16–20 Norway and, 28, 30 politics of, 12–14 populations of, 214n. 46



public architecture and, 14–20, 78, 83–84, 144–54, 174–88, 194–95, 201, 204–11 religion in, 13–14 State Art Council, 219n. 108 town halls in, 13, 14, 17–18 Swedish History Museum (Stockholm), 151, 151 Swedish Society for Arts & Crafts Aalto at, 205–6 foundation of, 26 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 140 Paulsson and, 56, 102, 146 Stockholm Exhibition and, 145, 149 Swensson, Hugo, Paul Hoffman, läroverksadjunkt (Paul Hoffman, adjunct teacher), 14 Swensson, R. O. Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and, 39 Gothenburg Art Museum, 41, 50, 50 G.-​P. Building, 67, 155, 156 Gustaf Adolf square and, 41, 54, 73 Taesler, Werner, 84 Tainon, René, 198 Teknisk tidskrift, 11, 16, 56, 87, 214n. 16 Telmányi, Emil, 165 Tengbom, Ivar, 16, 18, 56, 57, 178, 189 Tengboms arkitektkontor, 184 Terragni, Giuseppe, 220n. 30 Tessenow, Heinrich, 52, 54, 180 Tessin, Nicodemus, the Elder, 16. See also Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder theater (place in modern culture), 166 Therborn, Göran, 10–11 Thomas, A. J., 189, 200 Thomas, Ambrose, Mignon, 169 Thomas, Percy, 189, 189 Thorburn, Eugen, 33, 41, 158 Thornley and Briggs, 200, 232n. 57 “Thou ancient, thou free.” See “Du gamla, du fria” Thule Building, 127, 130, 132, 141, 156, 157 Thyrén, Johan C., 108, 119 Principerna för en strafflagsreform (The principles for a reform of the laws on punishment), 108 Tillius, Carl, 168 Tjeenk, Jan de Bie Leuveling, 79 Tommos, Ville, 162 Toomer, Albert J., 189 Torggatan, 41, 87–88

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Torulf, Ernst Borås courthouse, 18 Courthouse of Nicodemus Tessin the Elder and, 33 death of, 165 Gothenburg Art Museum, 50, 50 Gothenburg Central Post Office, 38, 39, 54 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 61–62 Natural History museum, 54 office building by, 155 Toward an Architecture (Le Corbusier), 93 towers Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 97, 116 Kristine Church, 4, 24–25, 31 in public architecture, 14, 18, 78, 82, 147, 151, 157, 172, 173, 176, 181, 189, 193, 193, 197, 199, 200, 201, 202, 202, 213n. 7 town halls in Aarhus, 172–73, 172, 173, 205 in Accrington, 232n. 57 in Aulnoye-​Aymeries, 193 in Barnsley, 200, 232n. 57 in Berry-au-​Bac, 193 in Boston, 210 in Boulogne-​Billancourt, 3, 4, 81–83, 82, 83, 196, 197, 198, 203 in Bucharest, 220n. 19 in Cachan, 3, 78, 193, 194, 196 in Camden, 189, 200 in Colombes, 193 in Copenhagen, 16, 16 courthouses and, 14 in Dunkirk, 193 in Gothenburg, 4, 24, 25, 130 Gothenburg Courthouse extension and, 6 in Greenwich, 78, 189, 190, 224n. 5 in Halmstad, 124, 175, 177–80, 178, 181, 183, 184 in Hammersmith, 189 in Hässelholm, 231n. 31 in Hilversum, 3, 4, 78–79, 80, 123, 189, 193–94, 203 in Hornsey, 78, 123, 189, 190 in Karlskoga, 183–84, 184, 202 in Kungsbacka, 156, 175–76, 175, 194, 201 in Leeds, 200 in Leiden, 79, 175 in Le Portel, 193 in Lille, 4, 193, 193



in Linköping, 231n. 31 in Ludvika, 175, 180–81, 180, 195 in Mjölby, 231n. 24 modernism and, 78–79, 174–202 in Montdidier, 193 in Montrouge, 196 monumentality and, 1, 3–4, 17–18 in Munich, 201–2, 203 in Norwich, 124, 189–91, 191 in Östersund, 231n. 24, 231n. 31 in Paris, 3, 196 in Poissy, 196–97, 198, 198 public architecture and, 14, 17–18, 78–79, 123, 174–202 in Puteaux, 196, 197–98, 197 in Rüstringen, 220n. 31 in Säynätsalo, 206, 206 in Sheffield, 3–4, 199–200, 201 in Skellefteå, 184 in Søllerød, 205 in Stockholm, 18, 52, 107, 179, 189–91 in Sundbyberg, 201, 202 in Swansea, 189, 189 in Sweden, 13, 14, 17–18 in Trosa, 231n. 24 in Västerås, 214n. 11 in Villeurbanne, 198–99, 199 in Worthing, 189, 200 Trana, Erik, 33, 36 translation, xxiii, 213n. 18, 224n. 8 Tredyffrin Public Library, 208 Trefaldighetskyrkan, 16 Treib, Marc, 97, 100 trials, 101 Trippen House, 38 Trollhättan, 21 Trosa, 231n. 24 Trygger, Ernst, 223n. 124 Uddevalla, 14, 156 Umbach, Maiken, 46 Union des municipalités socialistes, 196 United Nations, 209–10, 210 United States Asplund’s influence in, 208, 209 Asplund visits, 50–51, 52 journalism in, 230n. 151 monumentality and, 2–3, 50–51, 52, 201 U.S. Supreme Court, 209 Uppsala, 181–82, 181, 182, 195 Uppsala School, 116–19 Uren, Reginald, 78, 123, 189, 190 Vadstena, 14, 16, 17, 18 Vago, Joseph, 79, 185

Vago, Pierre, 197–98 Vahlberg, Hugo, 227n. 33 Valéry, Paul, Eupalinos, 2 Valle, Gino, 211 Vallée, Jean de la, 16 Valois, P. Georges, 203 value nihilism, 117 värdennihilism, 117 Värnlund, Rudolf, Man bygger ett hus, 105 Västerås, 14, 214n. 11 Västergötland, 213n. 7 Venice, 47, 49, 51 Venturi, Robert, 207–8, 209 Learning from Las Vegas (various authors), 210, 211 Viard, P., 187, 187 Vidi, 38–40, 126, 168 Vienna (Austria), 7 Villa Savoye, 93, 94, 223n. 111 Villejuif School, 186, 186, 188 Villeurbanne, 198–99, 199 Vindum, Kjeld, 205 Vingboon, Justus, 38 Vivaldi, Antonio, 169 Volvo, 208 Vorhölzer, Robert, 86 Vuibert and Schillio, 193 Wagner, Otto, 42, 50, 53, 174–75 Wahlman, Lars Israel, 18, 112 Waldemar Zachrisson, 33, 33 Wallander, Sven, 216n. 34 Wallberg, Frans, 18 Wallberg, Ingrid, 155 Wallenberg, Marcus, 126 Wångfeldt, Viktor S:son, 58, 128–29 Washington, D.C., 51 Supreme Court, 209 Washington, University of, 208 Webber, E. Berry, 189, 191–92, 192 Weber, Carl Maria von, “Invitation to the Dance,” 133 Wechselwirkung, 120 Weijke, Gunnar, 183, 183 Wenngren, Sven O., 24 Wenngren Building, 24, 25, 130 Werkbund, 3, 52 Wernstedt, Melchior, 156 Westerberg, Karl Martin, 227n. 9 West Germany, 188 Westgöthe Leijon, 20 Westholm, Sigurd, 195 Westman, Carl, 18, 19, 36, 41, 47, 151 Weston-super-​Mare (England), 189 Whitelocke, Bulstrode, 12, 21, 22

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Wigforss, Ernst, 100–101, 227n. 38 Wijk, Carolina, 165 Wijk, Hjalmar, 165 Wijnbladh, Fridolf, 14 Wikander-​Brunander, Siri, 127, 134 William-​Olsson, Tage, 142 Willink family, 123 windows as built, 87, 88–93, 89, 91, 93, 97, 101, 194 criticism and, 125, 127, 130, 131, 133, 135

262

00i-264_Adams_4p.indb 262



designs for, 38, 46, 52–53, 56, 62–63, 62, 64, 70, 71, 75–76, 76, 84 Wirén, Dag, 169 Wittwer, Hans, 3, 79 Wölfflin, Heinrich, 112, 113, 186 Woodland Cemetery. See Asplund; Lewerentz Worthing (England), 189, 200 Wrangel palace (Stockholm), 16 Wrede, Stuart, 7, 208

Zadkine, Ossip, 198 Zahar, Marcel, 82 Zetterström, Hasse, 133, 230n. 152 Zettervall, Helgo, 14, 183 Zimdahl, Helge, 59, 165 Zorn, Anders, 15 Zweigbergk, Eva von, 133, 161

Ysendyck, Jules Jacques, 82

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