Living in a landscape thoughts on the recent failure of the State Capitol Building competition | Juneau, Alaska Thane Magelky
r ecently an event took place in Alaska that broadened my perception of how northern- ers view their land and architecture. The event, a competition for a new Alaska State Capitol Building, sparked an unusual public discussion about design and architecture. A great deal of criticism focused on the submit- ted designs’ modernism, but little comment discussed their relationship to the site and dominating landscape of the capitol city Juneau. Below the surface of the comments, is it pos- sible that the principle design criticism is the lack of relationship to site and landscape? Do we, as northerners, have an intuitive sense of landscape but not the language to express it? Are Alaskans more inclined to accept designs that relate to the landscape? If so, how is that relationship defined? We, as Alaskans and northerners, have a unique relationship with the land. We are astutely aware of place. The climate, remote location, and sparse population keep us constantly aware of the environment. Nature here permeates our very existence — forty below zero temperatures have a bone-chilling way of reminding us where we are. Ask a northerner— we know what the solstice is and when it occurs, and what an equinox is. The summer solstice brings one of our largest celebrations of the year. The equinox- es, the tipping point between the slumber of winter and the exuberance of summer, signal a comprehensive change in lifestyle. North- erners are intimate with the environment; quite literally our lives depend on it.
People come to this northern land for various reasons, all of which are linked inextricably to the land. We are here to mine gold. We are here to mine knowledge. We are here to mine solitude... or recreation... or timber. We depend upon the land, either directly or by association, for our livelihood. Tragically, this pride and sense of place has not translated into our Alaskan architecture, most of which falls well short of recognis- ing its place, instead seeking inspiration from English gardens, French chateaux and Mediterranean villas. Ironically, ‘sought-af- ter’ hillside sites are flattened to make way for flood-plain floor plans while trees are levelled to make way for people moving to the forest from the city centre. In our practice, when discussing site-building relationships, we commonly distinguish be- tween what we call landmark and background designs, each equally important. Background designs form the bulk of the built environ- ment. They are the fabric formed by build- ings and landscape, whether urban or rural. Poor designs result in a low quality of fabric, and are detrimental to a community. Landmark designs, by contrast, are those buildings that supersede their surround- ings. Like a brooch or piece of jewellery, they compliment and expand the experience of the fabric. Too much jewellery and the pieces lose clarity and coherence. Not enough, and the fabric can become dull and drab. The wrong combination detracts from both fabric and jewellery.
Two extremes of Alaskan architecture dem- onstrate the range of our built environment. Success: architecture incorporated into landscape. Failure: architecture imposed on landscape. Here, a historic building serves as an exemplary example of architecture transcending itself due to its relationship to the land and site. A new building is equally exemplary, ignoring landscape and imposing architecture upon it. 1. The Kennecott Copper Mine, located in the Wrangell-Saint Elias National Park, is by itself, a background building notable primar- ily for its historicity. However, in conjunction with its site, it transcends its own architecture to have landmark stature. It is an outstanding example of the blending of building and site that northerners intuitively seek. The site is an expansive but enclosed val- ley surrounded by the rocky slopes of the Wrangell-St. Elias mountain range. In the bottom of the valley, below the buildings, are the Kennecott River and Kennecott Glacier. Under any condition, the site is exceptional and beautiful. The mine buildings do not detract from this setting. Quite the opposite. The buildings give scale and proportion to a natural setting where before there is no human element of comparison. They actually accentuate the size and natural splendor of the site. The relationship is symbiotic— the mountain accentuates the building’s scale. What would be a pleasant but otherwise unassuming structure on any other site actually assumes the monumental setting of the mountain.
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