Texto 08 AdaptiveReuse

Adaptive
REUSE
Liliane Wong
Adaptive
REUSE
Extending the Lives of Buildings
Birkhäuser
Basel
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Contents
Preface 6
00 Babel 8
01 New Order: The Frankenstein Syndrome 30
02 Plunder: Erasure & Redemption 42
03 The Quest for Immortality 58
04 Battle of the Immortals 72
05 Immortality Redefined 80
06 Immortality Codified 90
07 Hosts [and Guests] 102
08 Considering DNA 122
09 Ghosts 136
10 Fitting In 148
11 The Impassive Host 162
12 Sited Interventions 176
13 The Mathematics of Reuse 190
14 A New and Distant Frontier 224
15 Second Violin 240
Illustration Credits 247
About the Author 252
Index 253

Preface
Adaptive reuse has existed since time immemorial. The reuse of caves
as domicile and animal pelts as clothing are early instances of man’s re-
sourcefulness. The same resourcefulness is evident in today’s built environ-
ment when we extend structures that can no longer accommodate their
program of use or give another life to materials through recycling. Such
projects of reuse, born of common sense and economy, are referred to by
many names today: refurbishment, renovation, rehabilitation, remodeling.
They are serviceable and respectable and provide for the quotidian spatial
needs of society.
Over time a variant of reuse emerged, one of poetic and artistic design in-
tervention in heritage sites, such as Carlo Scarpa’s timeless adaptive reuse
of the Castelvecchio in Verona, Italy, as a museum of Romanesque sculpture.
Until the second half of the 20th century, adaptive reuse projects were pri-
marily the former. The latter were venerated as rare and not-to-be replicated
works of art. Recent decades and their focus on climate change have brought
about a shift in this division of adaptive reuse projects. With a global focus
on the conservation of resources, there are now, more than ever, concerted
efforts to evaluate the potential of existing and outdated structures for reuse
rather than to demolish and build anew. These efforts pertain to structures
with heritage value but also to those with less historic or architectural sig-
nificance. This profound embrace of altering architecture for new use as an
equally fulfilling and exciting endeavor has brought about a paradigm shift in
which “starchitects” as well as the other stars in the design galaxy engage
in adaptive reuse with diverse and fascinating approaches. There is only one
Carlo Scarpa but today there is a new wealth of rich and varied projects of
reuse that extend the lives of structures.
Within these pages I attempt to understand and convey the approaches of
adaptive reuse through the examination of its place in history, its relationship
to adjacent fields, its place within shifting norms of art, culture and society
and its typological differences, so as to illuminate a neglected subject in its
own light. This body of work has its foundation at the millennium in the
Rhode Island School of Design’s Department of Interior Architecture. Here,
a scrappy young department under the farsighted headship of Brian Ker-
naghan redefined the scope of interior architecture and broadened its scope
so as to encompass the reuse of structures—great and small—in the built
environment. The many ideas within this book have their genesis in both the
many collegial conversations among our faculty and the Int|AR Journal on
Interventions & Adaptive Reuse that I co-founded in 2008 with my colleagues
Markus Berger, Heinrich Hermann and Ernesto Aparicio.
I am most grateful to those who contributed to the realization of this project,
especially the student assistants who shared their impeccable organizational
6
and design skills, in particular Jenna Balute, Clara Halston and Yue Zhang.
This book would not be what it is without Silke Nalbach, whose graphic de-
sign vision gave my words a visual life of their own. I especially want to thank
my editor, Andreas Müller, who believed in this book and whose embrace of
the Frankenstein syndrome right from the start was the beginning of a jour-
ney guided with both wisdom and wit. Most of all I want to thank the many
students who have taken my theory classes over the years at RISD. The
ideas, the language and the visual components are representative of our
many conversations together on adaptive reuse. From the USA, Canada,
Qatar, Indonesia, France, Estonia, Singapore, Turkey, Portugal, China, the
Philippines, Saudi Arabia, India, Korea, Guatemala, Honduras, Pakistan, the
Netherlands, Mexico, Jordan, Italy, Japan, Lebanon, Thailand, Venezuela,
Spain: you are the inspiration for this book.
Providence, RI
September 2016
7
The Arts never die. Their principles remain true for all time, because human-
ity is always the same. However its customs and institutions may be
modified, its intellectual constitution is unchanged: its faculty of reason-
ing, its instincts and sensations proceed from the same source now as
they did twenty centuries ago. It is moved by the same desires and the
same passions, while the various languages it employs do but enable it
to express in every age the same ideas, and to call for the satisfaction of
the same wants.
EUGÈNE VIOLLET-LE-DUC1
The story of adaptive reuse is interwoven with the history of ancient monu-
ments and the development of policy for the preservation of heritage. The
telling of this tale necessarily comprises terminology already embedded in
this history — from conservation to restoration and from preservation to
maintenance. These terms exist in multiplicity, with nuanced and, at times,
disparate definitions (and opinionated viewpoints) for the same word. Char-
acterized by what Italian conservationist/architect Giovanni Carbonara calls
“the historical fickleness of the very concept of conservation,”2 these terms,
in and of themselves, convey a history not just of the many changes within
the field but one that illuminates and explicates the roots of an emerging
adaptive reuse practice.
The regard for and the desire to protect heritage has recorded instances in
the Ancient Far East, Classical Greece, the Roman Empire and medieval
Europe, but a common terminology related to modern preservation, resto-
ration and conservation emerged primarily from the early 19 th-century efforts
to preserve and restore key monuments damaged in the French Revolution.
Without formal precedent, the notions of preservation and restoration were
shaped by a series of events centered upon an unsuspecting Viollet-le-Duc
and an advocacy for stylistic restoration. The firestorm unleashed by oppo-
nents of such practice in an anti-Restoration rhetoric eventually formed the
foundation of the modern conservation movement. As such, these terms —
restoration, conservation and maintenance — each reference an original
intent.
Since the late 19th century, art and architectural historians, curators, archi-
tects, archaeologists, conservationists and art critics have reflected upon,
dissected, reinterpreted, redefined and expanded upon these terms. In his
seminal 1903 essay Der moderne Denkmalkultus: Sein Wesen und seine
8 Babel 00
FIG.0: Turris Babel, Athanasius Kircher, Amsterdam, 1679. (manipulated detail)
00
Babel
Entstehung (The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Develop-
ment) Alois Riegl refers to “the modern cult of monuments or historic pres-
ervation,” inferring an equivalence between a 20th-century approach to heri-
tage and historic preservation while offering differentiated values that define
the modern monument. With a proliferation of viewpoints, events in history
and developments in methodology, in conjunction with an ever-changing set
of mores, these terms continued to evolve. The ensuing endless cycle of shifts
was aptly described by Marguerite Yourcenar: “The great lovers of antiquities
restored out of piety. Out of piety, we undo what they did.”3
In his concept of Kunstwollen, Riegl proposes that “[m]an is not only a pas-
sive sensorily recipient being, but also a desiring, active being who wishes to
interpret the world in such a way (varying from one people, region or epoch
to another) that it most clearly and obligingly meets his desires.”4 This human
condition accounts for much of the changing nature of the terminology
around conservation and preservation practices. In the years since the af-
termath of the French Revolution, there was an expansion of what we pre-
serve and how preservation takes place — changes reflective of man inter-
preting the evolving world around him.
In the early 20th century, the expansion of this field began to overlap with art
conservation, in which semi-ruined sculpture and built heritage evoked sim-
ilar strategies of recovery. In the international collaboration of post-World
War II, the definition of heritage extended from built monuments to groups
of buildings and sites, urban landscapes, landscapes, cultural landscapes,
modern built heritage of the 20th century, vernacular heritage and, most re-
cently, intangible cultural heritage. Each expansion of scope has been ac-
companied by a change in related terminology to reflect such development.
As a result, many identical terms have accumulated augmented definitions
with the passing of time.
Many of the terms referred to in this book have more than one definition. As
in the mythical Tower of Babel from the biblical Book of Genesis, this varia-
tion of language leads to confusion in the use of these terms. For example,
the 1995, 2006 and 2016 definitions of “preservation” by the U.S. Depart-
ment of the Interior differ one from the other, reflecting the particular context
in which the term was defined. As this book focuses on adaptive reuse
(rather than conservation or preservation), the significance of these terms
is not conditioned upon a single understanding defined at a single moment
in time. Rather, it is these very shifts in the understanding of conservation
and preservation that give rise to and provide the basis of adaptive reuse
practice. Conservation as addressed in the Venice Charter of 1964 can, in
fact, be viewed as a foundation of adaptive reuse while subsequent defini-
tions broaden its scope.5
Within the alphabetical order of this babylonian list, the various definitions,
interpretations, opinions and uses of each term are organized chronologically.
10 Babel 00
While by no means comprehensive, they include perspectives, wherever
possible, from different viewpoints: earliest definitions, official adopted lan-
guage of international organizations such as ICOMOS, international building
regulations (United Kingdom and USA), building science and historic com-
missions. Notably, the oldest terms are ”restoration” and ”maintenance,”
terms from the 19th century that attest to the origin of conservation practice.
Conversely, the newest terms are definitions of only the past decade or so,
often driven by building engineering. Some terms include many different
viewpoints while others are defined only through a particular lens. While it
is the intent of this book to embrace this less-than-cohesive language re-
flecting the many efforts made in the quest of a similar goal, the term ”pres-
ervation” used throughout implies a broad interpretation such as that of Paul
Philippot’s 1972 definition of “being equivalent … to conservation or resto-
ration — [and] can be considered, from this point of view, as expressing the
modern way of maintaining living contact with cultural works of the past.”6
As the story unfolds, it is hoped that the reader will refer to these changing
definitions and, in doing so, understand their development between “the
emphasis on either practical craftsmanship or subtle theoretical interpreta-
tion of principle …”7
1 Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, On Restorations (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Low and Searle, 1875),
p. 9. 2 Giovanni Carbonara, “The Integration of the Image: Problems in the Restoration of Monu-
ments,” in Nicholas Price, M. Kirby Talley, Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vacarro, eds., Historical and
Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation
Institute, 1996), p. 236. 3 Marguerite Yourcenar, “That Mighty Sculptor, Time,” in Price, Talley, Jr., and
Melucco Vacarro, eds., p. 214. 4 Alois Riegl, “The Main Characteristics of the Late Roman Kunst-
wollen” (1901), in Christopher S. Brown, ed., The Vienna School Reader, Politics and Art Historical
Methods in the 1930s (New York, NY: Zone Books, 2000), p. 95. 5 International Charter for the
Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites (The Venice Charter 1964), Article 5, ICOMOS
The International Council of Monuments and Sites. 6 Paul Philippot, “Historic Preservation: Philos-
ophy, Criteria, Guidelines, I,” in Price, Talley and Vacarro, eds., p. 268. 7 Carbonara, p. 236.
11
Adaptation
Any work to a building over and above maintenance to change its capac-
ity, function or performance.1
JAMES DOUGL AS, 20 06
Adaptation means the process(es) of modifying a place for a compatible

use while retaining its cultural heritage value. Adaptation processes
include alteration and addition.2
ICOMOS NEW ZE AL AND, 2010
Adaptation means changing a place to suit the existing use or a proposed

use.3
THE BURRA CHARTER, ICOMOS AUSTR ALIA , 2013
Addition
Additions cannot be allowed except in so far as they do not detract from
the interesting parts of the building, its traditional setting, the balance of
its composition and its relation with its surroundings.4
THE VENICE CHART ER, 196 4
Alteration
Action to secure the survival or preservation of buildings, cultural arte-
facts, natural resources, energy or any other thing of acknowledged val-
ue for the future.5
BS7913 :1998, BRITISH STANDARDS INSTITUTION
Modifying the appearance, layout, or structure of a building to meet new

requirements (Watt, 1999). It often forms part of many adaptation schemes
rather than being done on its own.6
A change in formation, that is removal of partition walls to enlarge a

space within the fabric of a building, or conversely the introduction of
partition walls to subdivide a space into smaller units.7
PAUL WATSON, 20 08
Work intended to change the function or appearance of a place.8

HISTORIC ENGL AND, PREVIOUSLY A PART OF ENGL AND’S HISTORIC BUILDINGS
AND MONUMENTS COMMISSION, 20 08

13
Conservation
The conservation of monuments is always facilitated by making use of
them for some socially useful purpose.9
THE VENICE CHART ER, 196 4
Action to secure the survival or preservation of buildings, cultural arte-

facts, natural resources, energy or any other thing of acknowledged val-
ue for the future.10
BS7913 :1998, BRITISH STANDARDS INSTITUTION
Conservation is the ensemble of means that, in carrying out an interven-

tion on an object or its environment, seek to prolong its existence as long
as possible.11
MARIE BERDUCOU, 199 0 (ARCHAEOLOGY )
[A]ll efforts designed to understand cultural heritage, know its history

and meaning, ensure its material safeguard and, as required, its presen-
tation, restoration and enhancement. (Cultural heritage is understood to
include monuments, groups of buildings and sites of cultural value as
defined in article one of the World Heritage Convention).12
ICOMOS, NAR A DOCUMENT ON AUTHENTICIT Y, 199 4
Modern conservation is principally characterized by the fundamental

change of values in contemporary society, a paradigm based on relativ-
ity and the new concept of historicity.13
JUKK A JOKILEHTO, 1999
The use of the term Conservation in the title of this series refers to the
whole subject of the care and treatment of valuable artefacts, both mov-
able and immovable, but within the discipline conservation has a mean-
ing which is distinct from restoration. Conservation used in this special-
ized sense has two aspects: first, the control of the environment to
minimize the decay of artefacts and materials; and, second, their treat-
ment to arrest decay and to stabilize them where possible against further
deterioration.14
SERIES EDITORS, ELSEVIER / BUT T ERWORTH - HEINEMANN, 1999
Preserving a building purposefully by accommodating a degree of ben-

eficial change.15
14 Babel 00
The process of managing change to a significant place in its setting in ways
that will best sustain its heritage values, while recognising opportunities
to reveal or reinforce those values for present and future generations.16
HISTORIC ENGL AND, PREVIOUSLY A PART OF ENGL AND’S HISTORIC BUILDINGS
AND MONUMENTS COMMISSION, 20 08
Preservation of the existing building and its fabric and fittings, in their
current state, for the future. Restoration implies a degree of repair to
bring fabric, components or fittings back to an acceptable standard.17
PAUL WATSON, PROFESSOR OF BUILDING ENGINEERING, 20 08
The process of caring for a place so as to safeguard its cultural heritage

value.18
JOHN H. STUBBS, 20 09
The purpose of conservation is to care for places of cultural heritage value.

Conservation means all the processes of understanding and caring for a
place so as to safeguard its cultural heritage value. Conservation is based
on respect for the existing fabric, associations, meanings, and use of the
place. It requires a cautious approach of doing as much work as necessary
but as little as possible, and retaining authenticity and integrity, to ensure
that the place and its values are passed on to future generations.19
ICOMOS NEW ZE AL AND CHART ER, 2010
Conservation means all the processes of looking after a place so as to

retain its cultural significance.20
CL AUSE 1.4, THE BURRA CHARTER, ICOMOS AUSTR ALIA , 2013
The objective of conservation is to maintain the significance of the archi-

tectural heritage or site. Significance is constituted in both the tangible
and intangible forms.21
INTACH (INDIAN NATIONAL TRUST FOR ART AND CULTUR AL HERITAGE) CHARTER, 2016
Conversion
Making a building more suitable for a similar use or for another type of
occupancy, either mixed or single use.22
[w]ork including a change in function or change in use, such as converting

an office block and making it suitable for residential use …23
PAUL WATSON, 20 08
15
Conversions always affect the structure of a building. They extend the
concept of refurbishment to interventions in the loadbearing members
and/or the interior layout.24
GEORG GIEBELER, 20 09
Extension
Expanding the capacity or volume of a building, whether vertically by
increasing the height/depth or laterally by expanding the plan area.25
[W]ork that includes an increase in size, which can be horizontal or verti-

cal expansion …26
PAUL WATSON, 20 08
Any extension is a new structure that is directly connected with the use
of the existing building.27
Maintenance
Take proper care of your monuments, and you will not need to restore
them. A few sheets of lead put in time upon a roof, a few dead leaves and
sticks swept in time out of a water-course, will save both roof and walls
from ruin. Watch an old building with an anxious care; guard it as best
you may, and at any cost, from every influence of dilapidation. Count its
stones as you would jewels of a crown; set watches about it as if at the
gates of a besieged city; bind it together with iron where it loosens; stay
it with timber where it declines; do not care about the unsightliness of
the aid; better a crutch than a lost limb; and do this tenderly, and rever-
ently, and continually, and many a generation will still be born and pass
away beneath its shadow. Its evil day must come at last; but let it come
declaredly and openly, and let no dishonouring and false substitute de-
prive it of the funeral offices of memory.28
JOHN RUSKIN, 18 80
It is for all these buildings, therefore, of all times and styles, that we plead,
and call upon those who have to deal with them, to put Protection in the
place of Restoration, to stave off decay by daily care, to prop a perilous
wall or mend a leaky roof by such means as are obviously meant for
support or covering, and show no pretence of other art, and otherwise to
resist all tampering with either the fabric or ornament of the building as
it stands; if it has become inconvenient for its present use, to raise anoth-
16 Babel 00
er building rather than alter or enlarge the old one; in fine to treat our
ancient buildings as monuments of a bygone art, created by bygone
manners, that modern art cannot meddle with without destroying.29
WILLIAM MORRIS, 18 87
[C]ontinual activity to ensure the longevity of the resource without irre-

versible or damaging intervention.30
ICOMOS APPLETON CHART ER, 1989
Actions which “retain an item in, or restore it to, a state in which it can
perform its required function.”31
BS3811:1993 BRITISH STANDARDS INSTITUTION
A “combination of all technical and administrative actions, including su-

pervision actions, intended to retain an item in, or restore it to, a state in
which it can perform a required function” (BS 3811:1993). Maintenance
involves routine work necessary to keep the fabric of a building, the mov-
ing parts of machinery, etc, in good order (BS 7913:1992). In other words,
it consists of regular ongoing work to ensure that the fabric and engineer-
ing services are retained to minimum standards (Ashworth, 1997).32
Routine work regularly necessary to keep the fabric of a place in good

order.33
HISTORIC ENGL AND, PREVIOUSLY A PART OF ENGL AND’S HISTORIC BUILDINGS AND
MONUMENTS COMMISSION, 20 08
Repair and/or replacement work to keep or restore any/every part of a

building, to current standard(s).34
PAUL WATSON, 20 08
Maintenance means regular and on-going protective care of a place to

prevent deterioration and to retain its cultural heritage value.35
Maintenance means the continuous protective care of a place, and its

setting.36

17
Modernization
Bringing a building up to current standards as prescribed by occupiers,
society and/or statutory requirements.37
Preservation
When we speak of the modern cult of monuments or historic preservation,
we rarely have “deliberate” monuments.38
ALOIS RIEGL, 19 03
The word preservation—in the broadest sense, being equivalent in some

cultures to conservation or restoration—can be considered, from this
point of view, as expressing the modern way of maintaining living contact
with cultural works of the past.39
PAUL PHILIPPOT, 1972
Implies the maintenance of the artifact in the same physical condition as

when it was received by the curatorial agency. Nothing is added to or
subtracted from the aesthetic corpus of the artifact.40
JAMES MARSTON FITCH, 199 0
Standards for Preservation: 1. A property will be used as it was historical-

ly, or be given a new use that maximizes the retention of distinctive
materials, features, spaces, and spatial relationships.41
U.S. SECRETARY OF THE INT ERIOR, 1995
Preservation is defined as the act or process of applying measures nec-

essary to sustain the existing form, integrity, and materials of an historic
property. Work, including preliminary measures to protect and stabilize
the property, generally focuses upon the ongoing maintenance and repair
of historic materials and features rather than extensive replacement and
new construction. New exterior additions are not within the scope of this
treatment; however, the limited and sensitive upgrading of mechanical,
electrical, and plumbing systems and other code-required work to make
properties functional is appropriate within a preservation project.42
U.S. SECRETARY OF THE INT ERIOR, 1995.
[P]reservation is no longer a retroactive activity but becomes a prospec-

tive activity.43
REM KOOLHA AS, 20 0 4
18 Babel 00
Preservation is defined as the act or process of applying measures to
sustain the existing form, integrity, and material of a building or structure,
and existing form and vegetative cover of a site. It may include initial
stabilization work, where necessary, as well as ongoing maintenance of
the historic building materials.44
U.S. SECRETARY OF THE INT ERIOR, 20 06
Arresting or retarding the deterioration of a building or monument by

using sensitive and sympathetic repair techniques. Preservation means
“the state of survival of a building or artifact, whether by historical acci-
dent or through a combination of protection and active conservation” (BS
7913:1998). It also can be defined as “the act or process of applying mea-
sures necessary to sustain the existing form, integrity and materials of
an historic property” (Weeks and Grimmer, 1995). Preservation focuses
on the maintenance and repair of existing historic materials and retention
of a property’s form as it has evolved over time. It includes protection and
stabilization measures.45
Preservation means to maintain a place with as little change as possible.46

Preservation means maintaining a place in its existing state and retarding

deterioration.47
Preservation focuses on the maintenance and repair of existing historic

materials and retention of a property’s form as it has evolved over time.48
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF THE INT ERIOR, 2016
Reconstruction
Re-establishment of the design of a building or artifact, or of what exist-
ed or occurred in the past, on the basis of documentary or physical evi-
dence.49
BS 7913 :1999 BRITISH STANDARDS INSTITUTION
Reconstruction is defined as the act or process of depicting, by means of

new construction, the form, features, and detailing of a non-surviving
site, landscape, building, structure, or object for the purpose of replicat-
ing its appearance at a specific period of time and in its historic location.50
19
The re-establishment of what occurred or what existed in the past, on the
basis of documentary or physical evidence (BS 7913:1999). Reconstruction,
in other words, re-creates vanished or non-surviving portions of a prop-
erty for interpretative purposes (Weeks and Grimmer, 1995).51
Reconstruction is defined as the act or process of reproducing by new

construction the exact form and detail of a vanished building, structure,
or object, or a part thereof, as it appeared at a specific period of time.52
Reconstruction is the rebuilding of a structure that no longer exists, i.e.

strictly speaking it is new building work.53
Reconstruction is distinguished from restoration by the introduction of

new material to replace material that has been lost. Reconstruction
means to build again as closely as possible to a documented earlier form,
using new materials.54
Reconstruction means returning a place to a known earlier state and is

distinguished from restoration by the introduction of new material.55
Reconstruction re-creates vanished or non-surviving portions of a prop-

erty for interpretive purposes.56
Reconstruction based on minimal physical evidence is appropriate where

it is supported by the knowledge of local craftspeople, including folklore,
beliefs, myths and legends, rituals, customs, oral traditions, etc. The
objective of this practice must be to interpret the original meanings of
the resource in the contemporary context and reinforce its bond with
society.57
INTACH (INDIAN NATIONAL TRUST FOR ART AND CULTURAL HERITAGE) CHARTER, 2016
20 Babel 00
Refurbishment
Modernizing or overhauling a building and bringing it up to current ac-
ceptable functional conditions (Watt, 1999). It is usually restricted to ma-
jor improvements primarily of a non-structural nature to commercial or
public buildings. However, some refurbishment schemes may involve an
extension.58
[W]ork that is related to a change in performance.59

PAUL WATSON, 20 08
The refurbishment of a building always means adapting it to meet current

standards, too, whether because of change in users’ demands or new
technical regulations.60
GEORG GIEBELER AND PETR A K AHLFELDT, 20 09
The difference between refurbishment and conversion, however, is that

refurbishment does not involve any major changes to the loadbearing
structure or interior layout. It therefore lies exactly between maintenance
and conversion, but the extent of refurbishment works can vary enor-
mously.61
Rehabilitation
[M]odification of a resource to contemporary functional standards which
may involve adaptation for new use.62
ICOMOS APPLETON CHART ER, 1989
Rehabilitation is defined as the act or process of making possible a com-

patible use for a property through repair, alteration, and additions while
preserving those portions or features which convey its historical cultural
or architectural values.63
Work beyond the scope of planned maintenance, to extend the life of a

building, which is socially desirable and economically viable (Watt,
1999). It is a term that strictly speaking is normally confined to housing.
Rehabilitation can also be defined as “the act or process of making pos-
sible a compatible use for a property through repair, alteration and ad-
ditions while preserving those portions or features which convey its
historical, cultural or architectural values” (Weeks and Grimmer, 1995).
It acknowledges the need to alter or add to a historical property to meet
21
continuing or changing uses while retaining the property’s historic char-
acter.64
An upgrade in an element or elements of a building. A suitable example

here would be the installation of a new central heating system with ap-
propriate controls and zoning, to an older property.65
PAUL WATSON, 20 08
Rehabilitation acknowledges the need to alter or add to a historic prop-

erty to meet continuing or changing uses while retaining the property’s
historic character.66
Relocation
Relocation and dismantling of an existing resource should be employed
only as a last resort, if protection cannot be achieved by any other means.67
ICOMOS APPLETON CHART ER, 198 3
Dismantling and re-erecting a building at a different site. It can also mean

moving a complete building to a different location nearby.68
Remodeling
This is a North American term analogous to adaptation. It essentially
means to make new or restore to former or other state or use.69
Renewal
Substantial repairs and improvements in a facility or subsystem that re-
turns its performance to levels approaching or exceeding those of a recent-
ly constructed facility.70
Comprehensive dismantling and replacement of an element of a place,

in the case of structures normally reincorporating sound units.71
22 Babel 00
Renovation
Upgrading and repairing an old building to an acceptable condition,
which may include works of conversion.72
Renovation does not add anything new to the building stock, nor does it
replace old with new. Instead it maintains the value and the function of
the existing building through competent “upkeep.”73
Repair
Take proper care of your monuments, and you will not need to restore
them.74
JOHN RUSKIN,18 89
Work beyond the scope of regular maintenance … to return a building or

artifact to good order without alteration or restoration.75
BS 7913 :1998 BRITISH STANDARDS INSTITUTION
This is the “restoration of an item to an acceptable condition by the re-

newal, replacement or mending of worn, damaged or decayed parts”
(BS 8210:1993). It is associated with the rectification of building compo-
nents that have failed or become damaged through use and misuse (Ash-
worth, 1997).76
Work beyond the scope of maintenance, to remedy defects caused by

decay, damage or use, including minor adaptation to achieve a sustain-
able outcome, but not involving restoration or alteration.77
Repair means to make good decayed or damaged fabric using identical,

closely similar, or otherwise appropriate material.78
Replicate
In consonance with traditional ideals, replication can be accepted as an
appropriate strategy not only to conserve unprotected historic buildings,
but especially if such replication encourages historic ways of building.79
INTACH (INDIAN NATIONAL TRUST FOR ART AND CULTUR AL HERITAGE) CHARTER, 2016
23
Restoration
The proper meaning of the word Restoration is the re-establishment of
parts of a building more or less damaged that one up-grades to its work-
ing order. In architecture, Restoration is said to be less mechanically nat-
ural than the work that the artist undertakes based on the remains or
descriptions of a monument, its entirety and the comprehensive mea-
surements, proportions and details. Very often it suffices for one to know
some traces of columns, entablature and capitals of columns of a Greek
architecture to rediscover the order of a temple.80
QUATREMÈRE DE QUINCY, 18 32
The term Restoration and the thing itself are both modern. To restore a
building is not to preserve it, to repair, or rebuild it; it is to re-instate it in
a condition of completeness which could never have existed at any given
time. It is only since the first quarter of the present century that the idea
of restoring buildings of another age has been entertained; and we are
not aware that a clear definition of architectural restoration has as yet
been given. Perhaps it may be as well to endeavour at the outset to gain
an exact notion of what we understand, or ought to understand, by a
restoration …81
EUGÈNE VIOLLET-LE- DUC, 1875
[A] strange and most fateful idea, which by its very name implies that it
is possible to strip from a building this, that, and the other part of its
history — of its life that is — and then to stay the hand at some arbitrary
point, and leave it still historical, living, and even as it once was.82
WILLIAM MORRIS, 1877
It means the most total destruction which a building can suffer: a destruc-
tion out of which no remnants can be gathered: a destruction accompa-
nied with false description of the thing destroyed. Do not let us deceive
ourselves in this important matter; it is impossible, as impossible as to
raise the dead, to restore anything that has ever been great or beautiful
in architecture.83
JOHN RUSKIN, 18 89
Restoration is generally understood as any kind of intervention that per-

mits a product of human activity to recover its function … Restoration is
the methodological moment in which the work of art is appreciated in its
material form and in its historical and aesthetic duality, with a view to
transmitting it to the future.84
CESARE BR ANDI, 196 3
24 Babel 00
Its aim is to preserve and reveal the aesthetic and historic value of the
monument and is based on respect for original material and authentic
documents.85
THE VENICE CHARTER, 196 4
Restoration is defined as the act or process of accurately depicting the

form, features, and character of a property as it appeared at a particular
period of time by means of the removal of features from other periods in
its history and reconstruction of missing features from the restoration
period. The limited and sensitive upgrading of mechanical electrical and
plumbing systems and other code-required work to make properties
functional is appropriate within a restoration project.86
Restoration is the continuation of [conservation], when conservation

treatment is thought to be insufficient, to the extent of reinstating an
object, without falsification, to a condition in which it can be exhibited.87
SERIES EDITORS, ELSEVIER / BUT T ERWORTH - HEINEMANN, 1999
To bring back an item to its original appearance or state (BS 3811). It is

often undertaken to depict a property at a particular period of time in
history, while removing evidence from other eras. This usually involves
reinstating the physical and/or decorative condition [of] an old building
to that of a particular date or event. It includes any reinstatement works
to a building of architectural or historic importance following a disaster
such as extensive fire damage.88
Restoration is defined as the act or process of accurately recovering the

form and details of a property and its setting as it appeared at a particular
period of time by means of the removal of later work or by the replace-
ment of missing earlier work.89
To return a place to a known earlier state, on the basis of compelling ev-

idence, without conjecture.90
The return of something to a former, original, normal, or unimpaired

condition.91
JOHN H. STUBBS, 20 09
25
Restoration means finishing an incomplete structure.92
The process of restoration typically involves reassembly and reinstate-

ment, and may involve the removal of accretions that detract from the
cultural heritage value of a place. Restoration means to return a place to
a known earlier form, by reassembly and reinstatement, and/or by re-
moval of elements that detract from its cultural heritage value.93
ICOMOS NEW ZE AL AND CHART ER, 2010
Restoration means returning a place to a known earlier state by removing

accretions or by reassembling existing elements without the introduction
of new material.94
CL AUSE 1.7, THE BURRA CHARTER, ICOMOS AUSTR ALIA , 2013
Alteration of the fabric of a building … or artifact … to make it conform

again to its design or appearance at a previous date.95
JAMES SIMPSON, 2016
Restoration depicts a property at a particular period of time in its history,

while removing evidence of other periods.96
Restoration is an appropriate conservation strategy to reinstate the in-

tegrity or complete the fractured “whole” of the architectural heritage/
site. It must aim to convey the meaning of the heritage in the most effec-
tive manner. It may include reassembling of displaced and dismembered
components of the structure and conjectural building or replacement of
missing or severely deteriorated parts of the fabric. Invariably, restoration
work must be preceded and followed by comprehensive documentation
in order to base interventions on informed understanding of the resource
and its context, and in conformity with contemporary practices of local
craftspeople.97
INTACH ( INDIAN NATIONAL TRUST FOR ART AND CULTUR AL HERITAGE) CHARTER, 2016
26 Babel 00
Retrofitting
The redesign and reconstruction of an existing facility or subsystem to
incorporate new technology, to meet new requirements or to otherwise
provide performance not foreseen in the original design (Iselin and Le-
mer, 1993). In other words, retrofitting is the replacement of building
components with new components that were not available at the time of
the original construction (Ashworth, 1997).98
1 James Douglas, Building Adaptation (Chennai: Elsevier, 2006). 2 “ICOMOS New Zealand
Charter for the Conservation of Places of Cultural Heritage Value, Revised 2010,” p. 9. http://www.
icomos.org.nz/nzcharters.html (accessed July 2, 2016). 3 “Australia ICOMOS Charter for Places
of Cultural Significance, The Burra Charter, 2013,” Australia ICOMOS Incorporated International
Council on Monuments and Sites, p. 2. 4 International Charter for the Conservation and Resto-
ration of Monuments and Sites (The Venice Charter 1964), Article 13, ICOMOS The International
Council of Monuments and Sites. 5 Tony Burke, “Principles of Building Adaptation and Conser-
vation,” Open Resources for Built Environment Education, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/
by-nc-sa/2.5/ (accessed March 5, 2016). 6 Douglas, p. 583. 7 Paul Watson, “The Key Issues
When Choosing Adaptation of an Existing Building over New Build,” in Journal of Building Apprais-
al (Palgrave MacMillan), Vol. 4, No. 3, p. 218. 8 Paul Drury and Anna McPherson, Conservation
Principles Policies and Guidance (London: English Heritage, 2008), p. 71. https://content.historicen-
gland.org.uk/images-books/publications/conservation-principles-sustainable-management-histor-
ic-environment/conservationprinciplespoliciesguidanceapr08web.pdf/ (accessed March 7, 2016).
9 International Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites (The Venice
Charter 1964), Article 5, ICOMOS The International Council of Monuments and Sites. 10 This
British Standard has since been withdrawn and replaced by BS7913:2013. 11 Marie Berducou,
“Introduction to Archaeological Conservation,” in Price, Talley, Jr., and Melucco Vacarro, eds.,
p. 248. 12 The Nara Document on Authenticity, ICOMOS International Council on Monuments
and Sites, 1994. 13 Jukka Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation (Oxford: Butter-
worth-Heinemann, 1999), p. 295. 14 Andrew Oddy and Derek Lindstrom (series eds.), “Series
Editors’ Preface,” in Jokilehto. 15 Douglas, p. 584. 16 Drury and McPherson, p. 71. 17 Wat-
son, p. 218. 18 John H. Stubbs, Time Honored: A Global View of Architectural Conservation
(Hoboken, NJ: Wiley & Sons, 2009), p. 23. 19 ICOMOS New Zealand, p. 1. 20 ICOMOS Aus-
tralia, p. 2. 21 http://www.intach.org/about-charter-principles.php#b3 (accessed March 7,
2016). 22 Douglas, p. 584. 23 Watson, p. 218. 24 Georg Giebeler, Rainer Fisch, Harald
Krause, Florian Musso, Karl-Heinz Petzinka and Alexander Rudolphi, Refurbishment Manual. Main-
tenance Conversions Extensions (Basel: Birkhäuser), p. 14. 25 Douglas, p. 585. 26 Watson,
p. 218. 27 Giebeler, Fisch, Krause, Musso, Petzinka and Rudolphi, p. 15. 28 John Ruskin, The
Seven Lamps of Architecture, 6th ed., (Kent: George Allen, 1889), p. 196–197. 29 William Morris,
“The Manifesto” (SPAB Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, 1887), https://www.spab.org.
uk/what-is-spab-/the-manifesto/ (accessed March 13, 2016). 30 “Appleton Charter for the Protec-
tion and Enhancement of the Built Environment,” ICOMOS Canada, 1983, p. 3. 31 Burke, Section 2.
32 Douglas, p. 586. 33 Drury and McPherson, p. 71. 34 Watson, p. 218. 35 ICOMOS New
Zealand, p. 6. 36 ICOMOS Australia, p. 4. 37 Douglas, p. 587. 38 Riegl, p. 69. 39 Paul
Philippot, “Historic Preservation: Philosophy, Criteria, Guidelines, I,” in Price, Talley and Vacarro,
eds., p. 268. 40 James Marston Fitch, Historic Preservation: Curatorial Management of the Built
World (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1990), p. 46. 41 Kay Weeks and Anne Grim-
mer, The Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties with Guide-
lines for Preserving, Rehabilitating, Restoring and Reconstructing Historic Building (Washington,
DC: US Dept of the Interior, 1995), p. 26. 42 Weeks and Grimmer, p. 17. 43 Rem Koolhaas,
“Preservation Is Overtaking Us,” in Future Anterior, Vol. I, Winter 2004, p.
2. 44 William J. Murtagh,
Telling Time, The History and Theory of Preservation in America (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons,
3rd ed. 2006), p. 5. 45 Douglas, p. 588. 46 ICOMOS New Zealand, p. 10. 47 ICOMOS Aus-
tralia, p. 2. 48 http://www.nps.gov/tps/standards/four-treatments.htm (accessed March 6, 2016).
49 James Simpson, “The Anatomy of Theory,” www.buildingconservation.com (accessed
March 5, 2016). 50 Weeks and Grimmer, p. 165. 51 Douglas, p. 588. 52 Murtagh, p. 5.
27
53 Giebeler, Fisch, Krause, Musso, Petzinka and Rudolphi, p. 11. 54 ICOMOS New Zealand,
p. 7. 55 ICOMOS Australia, p. 4. 56 http://www.nps.gov/tps/standards/four-treatments.htm
(accessed March 6, 2016). 57 http://www.intach.org/about-charter.php (accessed July 2,
2016). 58 Douglas, p. 589. 59 Watson, p. 218. 60 Giebeler, Fisch, Krause, Musso, Petzinka
and Rudolphi, p. 16. 61 Ibid., p. 13. 62 ICOMOS Canada, p. 3. 63 Weeks and Grimmer,
p. 61. 64 Douglas, p. 589. 65 Watson, p. 218. 66 http://www.nps.gov/tps/standards/
four-treatments.htm (accessed March 6, 2016). 67 ICOMOS Canada, p. 5. 68 Douglas, p. 589.
69 Ibid. 70 Ibid. 71 Drury and McPherson, p. 72. 72 Douglas, p. 589. 73 Giebeler,
Fisch, Krause, Musso, Petzinka and Rudolphi, p. 11. 74 Ruskin, p. 196. 75 James Simpson,
“The Anatomy ofTheory,” http://www. buildingconservation.com (accessed March 5, 2016). 76 Doug-
las, p. 589. 77 Drury and McPherson, p. 72. 78 ICOMOS New Zealand, p. 10. 79 http://
www.intach.org/about-charter.php (accessed July 2, 2016). 80 “Restauration. C’est, dans le sens
propre du mot, le rétablissement qu’on fait des parties d’un bâtiment plus ou moins dégradé pour
le remettre en bon état. Restauration se dit, en architecture, dans un sens moins matériellement
mécanique, du travail que l’artiste entreprend, et qui consiste à retrouver, d’après les restes, le
débris ou les descriptions d’un monument, son ancien ensemble, et le complément de ses mesures,
de ses proportions et de ses détails. On sait qu’il suffit très-souvent de quelques fragmens de
colonnes, d’entablemens et de chapiteaux d’une architecture grecque, pour retrouver du moins
l’ensemble d’une ordonnance de temple.” Quatremère de Quincy, Dictionnaire Historique d’Archi-
tecture (Paris: Librarie d’Adrien Le Clere, 1832), English translation by Veronica Dewey. 81 Viollet-
le-Duc, p. 9. 82 Morris. 83 Ruskin, p. 194. 84 Brandi, pp. 230–231. 85 International
Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites (The Venice Charter 1964),
Article 9, ICOMOS The International Council of Monuments and Sites. 86 Weeks and Grimmer,
p. 117. 87 Oddy and Lindstrom. 88 Douglas, p. 590. 89 Murtagh, p. 5. 90 Drury and
McPherson, p. 72. 91 Stubbs, p. 23. 92 Giebeler, Fisch, Krause, Musso, Petzinka and Rudolphi,
p.
11. 93 ICOMOS New Zealand, p. 7. 94 ICOMOS Australia, p. 4. 95 James Simpson,
“The Anatomy of Theory,” in http://www.buildingconservation.com (accessed March 5, 2016).
96 http://www.nps.gov/tps/standards/four-treatments.htm (accessed March 6, 2016). 97 http://
www.intach.org/about-charter.php (accessed July 2, 2016). 98 Douglas, p. 590.
28 Babel 00
FIGS.1a–b: Can all structures be reused and
for any purpose?
Could the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, commemorating the 16th

president of the USA, be used as a residence? Conversely, could a large
suburban mansion be adapted to memorialize the president who abolished
slavery? (figs. 1a–b)
These are rhetorical questions that probe the design foundations of adaptive
reuse, a practice that is broadly defined as the “reuse of pre-existing struc-
tures for new purposes.”1 While the first recorded use of this term is recent,
the practice has its roots in ancient history, where reuse was often neces-
sitated by a scarcity of resources. The first noted use of the term in 19732
curiously coincided with the global oil crisis, which triggered an awareness
of natural resources. Until recently the reuse of existing structures was
most often associated with renovation and refurbishment, previously
considered as a bread-and-butter staple of architectural practice not

meriting design recognition. With a global focus in the last decades on the
effects of climate change, and the acknowledgment that “buildings are the
major source of global demand for energy and materials that produce
by-product greenhouse gases,”3 the practice of adaptive reuse has come
into its own.
Within today‘s context of climate change, the term “adaptive reuse” is re-
defined, and in a significant manner. One of three destinies for existing
structures, adaptive reuse, in contrast to demolition and preservation, per-
petuates a continuum of growth and change. Routinely referred to as “trans-
forming an unused or underused building into one that serves a new use,
the practice of adaptive reuse is rich and varied and its importance includes
not only the reuse of existing structures but also the reuse of materials,
transformative interventions, continuation of cultural phenomena through
built infrastructure, connections across the fabric of time and space and

FIG.0: The Horror Show, USA, 1979, director: Richard Schickel, actor: Boris Karloff. (manipulated detail)
01
Syndrome
The Frankenstein
New Order:
FIG.2: The Mezquita de Córdoba, Spain. FIG.3: The Gare d‘Orsay in Paris converted to the Musée
d‘Orsay by Gae Aulenti.
FIG.4: Splitting, Gordon Matta-Clark, 1974.
preservation of memory — all of which result in densely woven narratives of

the built environment with adaptive reuse as their tool.”4
A Christian church in southern Spain, the Mezquita de Córdoba, was con-
verted in the 7th century AD to an Islamic mosque and from the 13th century
was reconverted to a Christian church. The Zollverein coal mine and coking
plant in Essen, Germany, was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in
2001 and converted to an exhibition center. The first electrified urban rail
terminal in the world, the Gare d’Orsay in Paris, France, was converted in
1986 to a museum for Impressionist art. An abandoned house on Humphrey
Street in Englewood, New Jersey, USA, was “split in two“ in 1974 by artist/
architect Gordon Matta-Clark. Each of these projects exemplifies one aspect
of the breadth of adaptive reuse practice. What distinguishes each of these
types of reuse from the other? (figs. 2, 3, 4, 5)
In Córdoba, religious supremacy led conquering Islamists to use the existing
Christian church as the site of their mosque, as had done the Christians
before them when they had erected their church on the ruins of a Roman
temple dedicated to Janus. At Essen, the legacy of coal mining in the histo-
ry of industry led to the site’s status as World Heritage and its subsequent

FIG.5: Elements of the Zollverein coal mine
in Essen are part of a new exhibition center
designed by OMA.
transformation for the education of visitors. In Paris, the new use as a mu-
seum saved a noted turn-of-the-century train station from demolition. In New
Jersey, a reflection on the temporality of the built environment elevated to
art an unremarkable derelict home. Each of these interventions to existing
structures consciously engages with and alters the interpretation of the past.
Some are acts of overwriting with the purpose of expunging history, while
others extend that history with a new and different chapter through reuse
and reinterpretation. What constitutes a “successful” engagement of the
past? And what are the principles of such engagement that differentiate
these acts as a distinct practice?
Examples of adaptive reuse exist all around us. A few are highly celebrated
conversions of notable heritage buildings. The majority, however, are simply
part of a contemporary practice often driven by economics; schools convert-
ed to condominiums, jails to hotels, factories to artist studios, churches to
restaurants. Which of these many conversions are successful? How is that
success calibrated? Is it through the merits of the new use? Or is it through
a meaningful dialogue with the existing structure? What is the role of eco-
nomics? What of the conservation of materials and energy?
33
While much has been written over the centuries on the principles of archi-
tecture, there is silence on the principles of designing within pre-existing
architectural principles. Should the existing principles prevail? How could
new ones be introduced? Adding to, subtracing from, enveloping, extending,
inserting, weaving amongst, co-existing with — these are all possible oper-
ations on and within an existing structure. Herein, this rich and overlooked
architectural practice will be explored in all of its iterations; as historic pre-
cedence, through typological classification, through analysis, as enabled by
technology and new means.
The Frankenstein Syndrome

Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus is the
tale of a scientist who created a living creature as an experiment. Themati-
cally complex, it is a contemplation upon, among many themes, nature, ex-
istence and creation. Our present-day understanding of the novel, however,
is derived more from James Whale’s 1931 film Frankenstein than from a
familiarity with Victorian themes. As a society steeped in visual culture, the
mention of Shelley’s famed novel evokes Boris Karloff’s now iconic portray-
al of the “Monster.” Appropriated by pop culture, the “Monster” is a thing
of horror, dramatically different from Shelley’s ill-conceived and tortured (po-
etry-loving) creature.
Our association with Frankenstein is that of a creature, assembled from
fragments of various deceased persons, coming to life on a table raised to
an undefined life-giving source of energy. Shelley alludes to a creation pro-
cess, but it is Hollywood that supplies the details of body parts retrieved
through grave robbing and other nefarious means. In the film, we glimpse
seams — on wrists, neck — by which the different parts are attached to re-
semble the whole. Dr. Frankenstein created in the likeness and order of what
he knew: man, a being uniquely defined by a singular and consistent DNA .
The “Monster” resembles a man in form as its creator assumed a familiar
and pre-existing order; a living structure of bilateral symmetry. The “Monster”
was, instead, created from multiple body parts, comprised of the uniquely
different DNA of uniquely different men. By doing so, Dr. Frankenstein intro-
duced a new order into the known structure of man. Bypassing Shelley’s
multilayered themes, Hollywood credits the ultimate failure of the creature
to the defect of one particular body part — an “abnormal” brain of felonious
DNA . In the framework of Hollywood’s work of science fiction, the implica-
tion is that the substitution of dissimilar DNA subverted a structure devel-
oped for its own original DNA . The failure of this new creature, therefore, lies
in the introduction of a new and incompatible order within an existing one.
This incompatibility is the Frankenstein Syndrome.

New Order
“Order Is.”5 Louis Kahn’s brief declarative sentence speaks of order as a
demanding and perhaps willful master. “In the nature of space is the spirit
and the will to exist a certain way,” Kahn tells us, and “design must closely
follow that will.”6 Acknowledging the volition of order and applying it to the
practice of adaptive reuse, any change to or within an existing structure
necessitates a reckoning of that order.
Order is all around us. We negotiate cities in grids; rectilinear in the case of
Manhattan and radial in the case of Rome or Washington, DC. Order is audi-
ble; from bird calls that are species-specific to the two-note siren of an
ambulance, sounds are recognizable by their structure. This order of sounds
is visible when transcribed as music through time signature, a notational
structure assigning an order of beats and measure to sound. The fabric of
the clothing we wear and ultimately feel is ordered, woven in a grid system
of warp and weft. The spaces we occupy are ordered by the structure of
supports and planes that we can touch. (figs. 6a–b, 7, 9)
Successful interventions to any type of existing order, be it a city plan, music
or textiles, constitute a change to an already established order. Present-day
FIGS.6a–b: Cities such as New York and

Washington, DC are characterized by their own
particular order.
35
FIG.9: Traditional
textiles are ordered
by warp and weft.
FIGS.7, 8: Order is audible in music as rhythm. The order of

Bach’s English Suite No. 2 differs dramatically from the order
of Bartók’s Mikrokosmos V, Nr. 131.
Istanbul, for example, is a city on a triangular piece of land, evolved from the
ancient city of Constantinople. It is planned around 6th-century landmarks
such as the Hagia Sophia and the Baths of Zeuxippus that are still in existence
today. While no regular grid is visible, there is a perceptible order and set of
connections in the vast city between and in-between the monuments. In a
proposed masterplan for Kartal – Pendik, the industrial outskirts of Istanbul,
a new order is introduced within the existing order of the city. Within this
order a new dimension rises in the z direction, or vertical direction, through
the use of topographic devices, made possible by digital technology. A new
urban space of responsive structures is created as a new order within the
framework of the old. (figs. 10a–c)
A similar parallel can be made in music for the work of Hungarian composer
Béla Bartók, composing in the early 20th century. His work in ethnomusicol-
ogy fuses essential elements of folk music with classical music. Within the
structure of classical music are embedded, a few measures at a time, new

FIGS.10a–c: The historic center of Istanbul is
characterized by its own order. At Kartal – Pendik,
Zaha Hadid Architects‘ proposal introduces a
new order in the z-direction.
37
FIGS.11a–b: E-textiles introduce a new order of
electronic elements within a fabric‘s own order.
time signatures (and subsequently new order) to arrive at a composition at

times dissonant and syncopated. (fig. 8)
In the field of textiles, e-textiles, a type of technical textile, incorporate elec-
tronic devices and digital components into the age-old warp-and-weft struc-
ture of woven cloth. The seamless integration of such devices into cloth
requires an understanding and acceptance of the existing structure, so as
to create a new one within it. One variant is achieved through directly em-
bedding devices such as sensors and microcontrollers into fabric with stitch-
es that surround these new elements, isolating them and interrupting the
fabric’s flow of linear rows. Alternately, cloth can be woven with conductive
metal wire as a substitute for thread. The introduction of a new type of
thread within the old order of warp and weft simply and dramatically trans-
forms a piece of fabric into an electronic element. (figs. 11a–b)
Interventions to existing buildings and structures, too, begin with an under-
standing of order. With the “Monster” as an analogy to an adapted host build-
ing, Dr. Frankenstein’s premise for creation provides insight into assumptions
for adaptive reuse. To copy in the likeness and structure of oneself is an in-
tervention of duplication. The substitution of different body parts within this
structure, however, is a deviation, a subversion of the structure. Both types
of interventions — duplication and subversion — have parallels in architectur-
al history.

FIG.12: Neoclassicism‘s replication of
classical elements is an act of duplication:
Kedleston Hall by Robert Adam.
FIGS.13a–b: The ideal image of the temple is

translated onto the facade of the U.S.Supreme Court.
Deliberate architectural duplication has its roots in the late 18th century, with
the emergence of archaeology as a science. The enthusiasm in the Western
world for classical antiquity had for centuries resulted in travelers in search
of Greco-Roman monuments and a subsequent interest in the replication of
the structures of the ancient past and its classical elements. The works of
Palladio, Schinkel, Chambers, Adams are exemplary of this return to classical
forms. The act of duplication in Neoclassical architecture is a replication of a
perceived, pure ideal. The use of the Greek temple front as the facade of a
government building, such as the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington, DC, is
a transfer of ideals through architecture. Duplication has its parallel in adap-
tive reuse, in which a historic structure, or its remnants, is returned to its
original state through restoration. The duplication of a given, pre-existing
order as a new one is in itself an intervention. It is an act that denies change
and preserves for posterity through the refusal to recognize time and space.
(figs. 12, 13a–b)
The subversion of an existing order, too, has its parallel in the history of ar-
chitecture. Deconstructivism in architecture is a strategy premised upon an
intentional dislocation of order. Inspired by Jacques Derrida, Peter Eisen-
man’s 1989 Wexner Center for the Arts at Ohio State University, USA, with
its juxtaposition of divergent grids, has become an icon of this concept. In
adaptive reuse there are many instances of the blatant alteration of order,
39
FIG.14: Deconstructivism‘s intentional
dislocation of order in Peter Eisenman’s
Wexner Center for the Arts.
often subconscious, that juxtapose the old and the new, with the practice
of facadism at one extreme. Daniel Libeskind’s Military History Museum in
Dresden, Germany, is a conversion of a Neoclassical armory through a con-
scious dislocation of order. The introduction of a shard-like glass volume that
pierces the Neoclassical structure both in plan and elevation exemplifies
such subversive intent in adaptive reuse. (figs. 14, 15)
The reuse as housing of an unused school versus an underused church offers
examples of a different type of subversion in adaptive reuse. The typologies of
school and housing are ones that share the characteristic of an order created
by double loaded corridors. The order of a church, on the other hand, is pre-
mised upon a religious ritual expressed as a linear procession through a single
space of grand scale. The introduction of housing into the school is a natural
one, but such an intervention into the church necessitates a subversion of its
existing order. In adaptive reuse, as opposed to deconstructivism, this same
dislocation can often be a subconscious one. It is a product of economics that

FIG.15: Subversion.
does not necessarily account for architectural principles and can easily fall prey
to an incompatibility betwen the existing and the new.
In adaptive reuse practice we find a fascinating story between duplication
and subversion. This tale will unfold in the following chapters as we examine
the distance between these two poles of intervention. Through a close scru-
tiny of events and viewpoints, past and present, we will ultimately determine
methods by which one can approach an existing structure so as to devise
adaptive interventions that do not fall prey to the Frankenstein Syndrome. It
is a tale of power and greed, of mathematics and ego, of evolution and rev-
olution, of retribution and redemption, of profit and poetry.
1 Merriam-Webster Dictionary, http://www.merriam-webster.com (accessed January 7, 2016). 2 Ibid.

Merriam-Webster notes that the term “adaptive reuse” was first used in 1973. 3 http://www.
architecture2030.org (accessed December 7, 2015). 4 Markus Berger, Heinrich Hermann and Liliane
Wong, Editorial, The Int|AR Journal, Vol. 01, 2009. 5 Louis I. Kahn, “Order and Form,” Perspecta,
Vol. 3, (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1955), p. 46–63. 6 Ibid.
41
Adaptive reuse is born of violence.
Its history parallels the unfolding of civilization and the development of man
from hunter-gatherers. The familiar time lines of history depicting the devel-
opment of civilizations also represent a map of destruction. The evolution of
civilization from one cultural society to another is the product of factors that
include trade, colonization, religious conversion, social dominance, natural
disaster and invasion. Most often one, or a combination, of these factors
resulted in the elimination of one civilized group by another. This pattern of
conquest is ubiquitous through history from the Fertile Crescent to the
Ancient Near East, from the Aegean to Africa and the Pre-Columbian Amer-
icas. Each of these conquests was naturally accompanied by victory and its
resultant spoils of war. These spoils of looted goods, prisoners and existing
infrastructure form the basis of early adaptive reuse.
Andrea Mantegna’s Triumphs of Caesar is a nine-canvas series portraying
the return of Julius Caesar from a military campaign. With details based on
Plutarch, the canvases convey the magnitude of these spoils of war. From
these canvases emerges a list of war booty that includes looted paintings,
statuary, sections of architectural woodwork, metal in the form of armor,
coats of arms, shields, helmets, trophies, precious metals in the form of
silver and gold, vases and goblets of all sizes, animals such as oxen and
elephants, vast quantities of coin and precious stones and captives, both
young and old. This war booty was a commodity and utilized in a number of
tangible ways. The art was appropriated for Caesar’s collection, the animals
for sacrifice or games, the profitable items from metal to precious stones
for sale and the prisoners for the slave trade. The profit from these objects
replenished depleted coffers and even subsidized large-scale civic projects.

FIG.0: “Grande Ludovisi” Sarcophagus, c. 252 CE, Palazzo Altemps (manipulated detail).
02
Redemption
Plunder: Erasure &
A hidden inscription on a stone in the Roman Colosseum confirms that by
order of the Emperor Caesar Vespasian Augustus the new amphitheater was
erected with the spoils of war, in this case the AD 70 Siege of Jerusalem.1
(figs. 1a–i)
Not all physical plunder, however, was converted to coin. Some occupied
places of honor in their new destinations as a commemoration of victory. In
present-day Rome, eight of the many obelisks in the city were looted from
Heliopolis in 30 BC, upon Augustus’ defeat of Cleopatra. Re-erected as sym-
bols of victory in public piazzas, many of these hieroglyph-covered obelisks
were subsequently felled by the Goths with the fall of Rome, then rediscov-
ered in the 16th century by Pope Sixtus V, repaired and reused as part of an
urban plan that is still in existence. Other pieces of booty, such as sculpture
or art, are today coveted parts of museum collections around the world.
(fig. 2)
Plunder of a different nature is found within the vanquished cities. Occupied
by victors, the remnants of the cities became sites for adaptive reuse. New
styles of habitation, the hallmark of a foreign culture, were introduced into the
remaining structures and infrastructure — structures whose purpose and im-
portance in one society are made obsolete by the customs of another.

FIGS.1a–i: The Triumphs of Caesar,
Andrea Mantegna, c. 1484–1492,
Hampton Court Palace.
Adapted for new use, the existing structures are overwritten as a slow oc-
cupation that embeds itself over time. Accommodating mundane, quotidian
needs, domestic structures are knit into and in-between grand structures of
old, creating a patchwork in the fabric of the city. Driven by the needs of the
new culture, these small interventions are made without consideration of
FIG.2: Egyptian obelisks found in different

piazze in Rome.
45
FIGS.3a–b: Centuries of inhabitation are
visible today on the remains of the Porticus
Octaviae, Rome.
the purpose or organization of the existing architecture itself. The host build-
ings become simply an economy of means.
Evidence of this type of intervention is visible in many ancient cities today.
As an act of overwriting, it occurs at different scales. At the scale of a single
structure, the interventions of different societies/civilizations are superim-
posed upon each other as architectural layers. The layers reflect functions
and styles specific to that society and culture that in sum resemble a visible
patchwork narration — the physical manifestation of changing use over time.
Augustus’ Porticus Octaviae, a colonnaded civic enclosure from the 1st-cen-
tury BC in Rome, Italy, is one such example in which the history of a single
structure is displayed as a living collage. Part of today’s Roman Jewish
Ghetto, the Porticus’ temple front and two of the original Corinthian columns

FIGS.4a–b: The amphitheater of Arles,
originally a place of Roman games, as medieval
city and today‘s tourist site, Arènes d‘Arles.
remain. A brick arch has replaced the other columns, casualties of a devas-
tating earthquake. Remnants of a Christian structure stand in the place of
the original courtyard. Visible patches of varying building materials are scars
on the facade that attest to a slow transformation that occurs over time.
(figs. 3a–b)
A difference in customs often precludes the victors’ reuse of another society’s
structures, resulting in the obsolescence of entire parts of a city. Such impact
on the urban fabric is not readily discernible, as it occurs very slowly over
time. A comparison of city maps over centuries is akin to a quasi time lapse
photography that records the displacement resulting from the introduction
of new societal norms. Such comparisons offer us a picture of change in the
contraction and expansion of a city, or parts of a city, over time. The history
of the amphitheater of Arles, France, is exemplary of this type of change. In
its heyday, it accommodated a population of 20,000 Romans accustomed to
a tradition of spectacle. With the fall of the Roman Empire and the wane of
this ritual of games, the amphitheater lost its relevance. The greatly reduced
populace, living in constant fear of raids by the Saracens and later the Visi
goths, was instead in need of defense. The amphitheater was reevaluated
for its structure of 120 arches to serve as the substrate of a walled city of
200 homes. This reuse of the amphitheater as fortification reduced the once
vibrant city to the limits of the structure itself. The full extent of the city was
only restored with the amphitheater’s designation as a monument in the 19th
century. (figs. 4a–b)
The fall to obscurity of another amphitheater, the Colosseum in Rome, Italy,
further illustrates urban consequences of reuse. Its position, depicted on
47
FIGS.5a–b: Maps of Rome during and after the Roman Empire
demonstrate the changing role of the Colosseum in the city.
maps of Rome from different eras, demonstrates its changing role in the
fortunes of the city. At the height of the Empire, the Colosseum occupied a
prominent location in the city, evidenced by its placement just east of the
Roman Forum. As a place of civic celebration, its location off a main thor-
oughfare attests to accessibility for the masses. On a map depicting the city
after the fall of Rome, the Colosseum, abandoned and relegated to use as
a garbage dump, is sited in isolation, in an area of walled precincts without
connections to and relevance in the introspective life of the city in the Middle
Ages. (figs. 5a–b)

FIG.6: Military History Museum, Dresden, adapted
from an armory by Daniel Libeskind.
Contrary to the gradual adaptive reuse that occurs over time is the deliberate
and intentional overwriting of structures as an assertion of supremacy. Un-
dertaken on behalf of religious convictions or for the expansion of empire, this
assertion of supremacy was often the primary justification for the reuse of
structures, especially religious ones. The Military History Museum in Dresden,
Germany, demonstrates this idea as architectural concept with the new, ag-
gressive, geometric form piercing the existing structure, epitomizing the
actions of many military endeavors over time. From the Egyptian New King-
dom of 1400 BC to the 8th-century AD reign of Umayyad prince Abd al-Rah-
man in Córdoba, Spain, there are examples of religious and civic structures
superimposed directly upon those of the vanquished civilization. This type
of intervention can be seen in multiple acts of overwriting on the Temple of
Luxor in Egypt of the New Kingdom, a linear complex designed in a manner
consistent with the sacred processions of important religious festivals. With-
in the remains today are seen the remnants of a large 3rd-century Roman
49
ROMAN BARRACK
MOSQUE
ROMAN
SANCTUARY
BAROQUE
FIG.7: The many types of occupation over

time at the Luxor Temple, Egypt.
military fort, superimposed upon the entry courtyards, a 4th-century Christian

chapel and a startlingly white 14th-century mosque, rising out of the sand-
stone. Each conqueror chose to build on the same site, in a territorial act that
de-sanctified the structure of the previous victor, attesting to the desire of
Egypt’s many conquerors to demonstrate their might in the region of the
Nile. This type of intervention, of which there are many examples, leaves us
with a historic typology of adaptive reuse as erasure. (figs. 6, 7)
Is there relevance today for interventions motivated by conquests? How
have we evolved as a civilization in the 21st century? What do we battle over?
What are the consequences? Are there triumphs? What types of plunder do
we take? (figs. 8a–b)
Millennia separate the conquests of ancient civilizations and our present-day
hostilities. Yet there are salient similarities. Religious differences remain at
the heart of many modern conflicts. The desire to expand exists although
acquisitive encroachment occurs in a less overt fashion. There are new causes
for engaging in warfare, some more honorable than others, but diplomacy

FIGS.8a–b: Plunder, then and now: Sack of Rome, 410 AD
by the Visigoths; Baghdad, 2003.
and global agreements serve as built-in deterrents of explicit aggression. Yet

we still take prisoners. We still loot.
The advancement of technology accounts for the many differences in war-
fare. Weapons with the capability to inflict global destruction remotely and
with little combat engagement have changed the face of war. Controlled
from a distance, the resultant destruction has an air of detachment that re-
defines the nature of plunder. Physical objects are looted much as they were
in centuries past but not by victors. Taking advantage of the conditions of
war, lawless individuals use it as an opportunity to steal. Stolen art and ar-
chaeological finds from Afghanistan and Syria are today’s Elgin Marbles. Sold
on a black market, this type of plunder converts to coin in the tradition of
Caesar’s triumphs. Plunder in the form of re-appropriated structures as an
expression of supremacy has little relevance today due to this changed con-
cept of warfare, in which there are no opportunities for inhabiting such a
structure.These same developments in weaponry and technology have, how-
ever, extended the potential of plunder. Looting through the annihilation of
51
FIGS.9a–b: Modern weapons have changed the
nature of plunder: Japan, 1945, and Syria, 2015.
architectural heritage as in the ancient city of Palmyra is a new form of

plunder. This act of erasure is not a consequence of conquest but a tactic in
an ongoing game of war. The glory associated with monumental battlefield
confrontations of ideals has given way to the fear and cynicism of localized
terrorist aggressions without a defined sense of place. Modern war monu-
ments, such as the Vietnam War Memorial, attest to these altered senti-
ments. (figs. 9a–b)
The reuse of war-related structures in the modern era is not one of commem-
oration; rather, they serve as a vehicle for expressing the toll of war and
bearing witness to its atrocities for future generations. Many of the surviving
structures of war are inconvertible due to the ineradicable nature of events
that occurred. Instead, they become memorials and/or museums with the
sole purpose of remembering and educating. The Memorial and Museum
Auschwitz-Birkenau reuses the concentration camps as a memorial to its
1,100,000 victims. Its buildings and objects, largely kept in situ, are used as
evidence for future generations. With the identical objective, S-21, formerly
the Chao Ponhea Yat High School, a primary school in Phnom Penh, Cambodia,
used as a prison and torture site during the reign of the Khmer Rouge, now

FIG.10 : A classroom of the Chao Ponhea Yat High School, transformed
to a torture cell at S-21, is now the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum in
Phnom Penh.
serves as a memorial and museum. As silent witnesses, these structures

cannot be demolished. Difficult pasts and our present-day conscience render
them impervious to adaptation. In their reuse as living memorials and muse-
ums their history is forever preserved. (fig. 10)
War structures with less difficult associations, however, are opportunities
for architectural intervention. The Nazi Party Rally Grounds in Nuremberg,
Germany, an 11-square-kilometer site utilized for the display of power, is one
such example. The north wing of the Congress Hall was converted to an
archive and exhibition center through an architectural intervention similar to
that at the Military History Museum of Dresden. A deconstructivist glass-
and-steel shaft piercing the structure and exiting the brick-and-stone facade
is a modern act of erasure — one of de-consecration inspired not by religious
supremacy but by redemption. Architecture is employed in this instance as
a commentary on war, a departure from the triumphs of victory. This design
intervention is an overt act of adaptive reuse as exorcism. (fig. 11)
In instances of total destruction, interventions employ referential strategies
to recall what had been. For example, at the site of the 1840 Dresden Syn-
agogue, which was razed on Crystal Night 1938, a new synagogue was
53
FIG.11: Günther Domenig‘s Documentation
Center pierces the existing Nazi Congress Hall
in Nuremberg as an act of exorcism.
consecrated in 2002. The placement of the original building was preserved

in a courtyard and the new building erected on one edge of this footprint. A
cube that torques upwards from a ground-level geometry of its own, the
New Synagogue twists almost imperceptibly to align at the upper level with
the geometry of the destroyed synagogue. A relationship is created be-
tween the new and the old by an intangible but ever-present intervention of
memory. Similarly, at Ground Zero in New York City, the 2002 installation
Tribute in Light used 88 searchlights to form two ghostly towers with gigan-
tic beams of light, emitted from and recalling the site of the destroyed
World Trade Center. In the intervention of memory lies the hope of redemp-
tion. (figs. 12a–b, 13)
In exploring the roots of adaptive reuse in this way, two distinct types of
reuse emerge that have developed from the original archetype of the plunder
of military conquests: a gradual overwriting of existing structures and a
deliberate intervention of erasure. These two types, overwriting and erasure,
continue to evolve over time, incorporating ongoing developing technologies

FIGS.12a–b: The Dresden New Synagogue by
Wandel Lorch Architekten torques to pay homage
to Gottfried Semper‘s razed Dresden Synagogue.
FIG.13: Tribute in Light by Julian LaVerdiere and

Paul Myoda recalls the twin towers of the World Trade
Center, destroyed on September 11, 2001.
FIG.14a: Interior of accessory
building, Dachau Concentration
Camp Memorial Site.
FIG.14b: Dachau Concentration Camp, 1945.
FIG.14c: Syrian refugees, September 2015.

and a greater global accountability. Erasure as a concept has a limited
modern relevance and today we find in its place a reuse of memorial and
redemption.
For Consideration
The reuse of an accessory structure at the former Dachau concentration
camp as refugee housing.
The 2015 exodus of some four million refugees of the Syrian Civil War has
created a new challenge to adaptive reuse related to structures of war, mem-
ory and trauma. As part of a solution to alleviate the housing crisis created
by record numbers of refugees entering Europe, 50 refugees in Dachau,
Germany, were offered shelter in the former accessory building of the herb
garden at what was once the Dachau concentration camp. These structures
previously served as “a school of racially motivated alternative medicine.“2
What are the pros and cons of this action in the context of the different types
of adaptive reuse occurring as a result of military conquests? (figs. 14a–c)
1 Bruce Johnston, “Colosseum built with loot from sack of Jerusalem temple,” The Guardian, June 15,
2001. As the construction of the Colosseum dates to 72 AD, there is no doubt that it refers to the spoils
from Sack of Jerusalem in the Roman Jewish War of 70 AD. 2 Sophie Hardach, “The Refugees
housed at Dachau: ‘Where else should I live?’” The Guardian, September 19, 2015.
57
Faces of Immortality
The quest for immortality is the stuff of legends. From the Spanish explorer
Juan Ponce de León to Harry Potter’s headmaster Albus Dumbledore, the
fascination with the elusive “fountain of youth“ is one that transcends time.
Buildings, like humans, also experience a finite life span. At its conclusion,
they, like us, face an end: demolition. Through the practice of adaptive reuse,
however, this end, for some buildings, can be denied and perhaps even
postponed indefinitely in an immortalization of sorts. (fig. 1)
The desire to evade death is universal. We find numerous and varying prom-
ises of life after death in religions of all denominations, from Christianity to
Hinduism. With a common objective to posit life as an unending cycle, the
various religions offer nuanced views of extending life. The immortality en-
abled by the practice of adaptive reuse, like that in religion, is similarly nu-
anced by different intervention strategies. An examination of these concepts
in major religions offers us a point of departure for such concepts in adaptive
reuse.
The Christian concept of afterlife is premised upon the resurrection of Jesus
Christ, who died and was raised from the dead after three days. This resur-
rection, implied by the evidence of an empty tomb, was additionally corrob-
orated by Jesus’ appearance after death to his disciples on the road to Em-
maus. In resurrected form, Jesus resembled himself from the moment of
death. Caravaggio’s Doubting Thomas depicts this resurrected Jesus who, as
proof of his existence, displays the wounds inflicted by crucifixion to his
disbelieving disciple. Jesus stayed on earth for only a short period of time
before he ascended to heaven. Our knowledge of him remains at age 33, an
age that is instrumental to our understanding of his role in history.

FIG.0: The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, Caravaggio, c. 1601–1602, Sanssouci Picture Gallery. (manipulated detail)
03
for Immortality
The Quest
FIGS.1–2: Plimoth Plantation and Greenfield
Village are resurrected to the respective
historic moments of 1620 and 1908.
Structures that have lost their relevance in time are sometimes resurrected
from obscurity for posterity. Small communities of buildings such as colonial
Plymouth or the village of young Henry Ford are examples of such structures
that are no longer pertinent as living cities. Their significance lies in the recall
of a moment in history. Their preservation as living museums maintains
these specific moments in time: Plimoth Plantation in Plymouth, Massachu-
setts, USA, as the original 17th-century settlement of English colonists in the
New World and Greenfield Village in Detroit, Michigan, USA, as the late
19th-century community in which Henry Ford invented the Model T. Populated
by actors, these interactive museums recreate life of that particular period.

FIG.3: The Raising of Lazarus,
Duccio di Buoninsegna,
c. 1310–11, Kimbell Art
Museum.
Like Jesus Christ, these structures are brought back to life, restored to a
time that is most representative of their role in history and suspended for-
ever in that moment. (figs. 1, 2)
In Christianity we find a second type of resurrection in the account of young
Lazarus whom Jesus, in performing his miracles, restored to life four days
after an untimely death. Lazarus returned to life in real time, resumed the
cycle of living and eventually died a second, natural death. Lazarus’ resur-
rection is differentiated from Jesus’ by his ability to age with time. Lazarus’
resurrection is a temporary immortality and a brief reprieve from death. The
Hedmark Museum in Hamar, Norway, also a living museum, is differentiated
from Plimoth Plantation or Greenfield Village through such shades of tem-
porality. An active archaeological site with various remains of Norwegian
civilization dating from the 13th century, the site and the building remnants
were kept in situ as a “cold” museum. While the architectural interventions
of Sverre Fehn bring these archaeological remains to life as a museum, they
make no attempt to restore the structures. Instead, elements such as ramps
or a shed roof, created to provide the visitor with a detached view of the
ruins, are simply attached to the fragments. “There has been no attempt to
repair or to restore a specific period in the barn’s history. It gives no signal of
time in suspension; the buildings and objects openly continue a process of
disintegration, but the temporal aspect is slower.”1 (figs. 3, 4a–b)
In contrast to both types of resurrected structures, Plimoth Plantation and
the Hedmark Museum, the reconstruction of Old Town Market Place in
Warsaw, Poland, resembles a concept of afterlife akin to the Egyptian idea
61
FIGS.4a–b: Sverre Fehn‘s interventions at the
Hedmark Museum (the Storhamar Barn), Hamar.
of ka. Part of a complex symbolism, the ka refers, in instances of afterlife,

to a spiritual double of man that lives on after death. The ka survives on
condition that it has the ability to return to a body each night, accounting for
the elaborate ritual of embalmment in ancient Egyptian culture. Originating
from the 13th century, the bustling Market Place in the heart of old Warsaw
was once the meeting place of guilds and merchants, with signature late-
Baroque pastel-colored buildings occupied by a wealthy merchant class.
During the invasion of Poland in the Second World War, the Old Town market
square suffered severe damage from bombing that destroyed many of the
buildings and left the square a skeletal structure. In the early 1950s, the

FIGS.5a–c: Old Town Market Square, Warsaw,
before and after the Bombing of Warsaw, 1945.
war-ravaged square was restored with new modern buildings behind a re-cre-
ation of the 17th century facades. The replicated 17th-century shell is skin
deep, as the facades are disengaged from the modern functions of the
buildings behind them and the roles of their occupants. In this restored state
the market became anew the heart of Old Town, filled with outdoor cafés,
musicians and vendors. While the square is once again infused with a bus-
tling spirit, it is a spirit made possible by the restoration of the facades. The
reconstructed facades serve as the embalmed double of the 17th-century
Old Town Market Place, to which the spirit of touristic commerce returns
each day. (figs. 5a–c)
An Eastern approach to afterlife, reincarnation is rebirth as another form of
being. Complex variations exist between different beliefs — Hinduism, Bud-
dhism, Sikhism, etc. — with an accord, however, in the belief of the immuta-
bility of the soul within a changing body. This analogy is applicable in adaptive
reuse for a majority of existing structures that gain a second life, serving a
new and unrelated function. From church to apartment building, from jail to
hotel, factory to museum, change of use is a common phenomenon for old
63
FIGS.6a–b: Remains of the Gothic St. Kolumba
Church knit into Peter Zumthor‘s Kolumba
Museum, Cologne.
buildings. While frequently attempted, many such conversion projects fail due
to a lack of recognition and even denial of the essence of the existing struc-
ture. The Kolumba Museum in Cologne, Germany, and the Selexyz Bookstore
in Maastricht, Netherlands, are, by contrast, examples in which the reuse of
an ecclesiastical structure is premised on the essence of the original one.
Severely damaged in the bombing of Cologne, only parts of the exterior wall
and tower and a statue of the Mother of God atop a pillar remained of the
Gothic Saint Kolumba church. These relics of the old structure are knit phys-
ically into the facade as part of the collection in the new diocesan museum.
Their original placement and significance are points of departure of the con-
version. As highlights of the museum, the ruins provide not only an enhanced
experience of history that inspires the language of the new architecture but
a continuity of the building’s original intent. (figs. 6a–b)
In the Selexyz Bookstore, where the existing church was entirely intact, the
intervention instead referenced the rituals inherent in the church typology.
Program functions such as the wine bar are placed in the altar and apse,
alluding to the transubstantiation of Christ at the altar. Such juxtapositions
through building program connect, albeit with wit, the old and new uses. The
presence of the soul, the essence of the host building — physical or referen-
tial — distinguishes a project of adaptive reuse from that of a simple change
of function. In the proviso for the endurance of the soul may lie a principle
for a meaningful practice of reuse. The lack of this condition can be seen in
Frankenstein’s failed creature. (fig. 7)
An entirely different immortality emerges in the 21st century for a society in
which the role of religion has diminished. In its place is a newfound rever-
ence for technology and the opportunities it portends. New construction
means, for example, enabled the translocation of the 1888 Harriet Rees
House in Chicago, Illinois, USA, one of three surviving Romanesque Revival
houses in the city. Over time, urban development had slowly changed the

FIG.7: The new life of the 13th-century Dominican church as
the Selexyz Dominicanen Bookstore, Maastricht.
context of the house from residential to commercial. To accommodate the

development of a new mega entertainment complex, the house was moved
to a residential neighborhood. With enormous efforts and at incredible ex-
pense, the Harriet Rees House is once again in an appropriate context al-
though not its original one. These extraordinary means allow for a fragile
immortality that is not possible or available for the many existing structures
facing a similar plight. The U.S. Embassy in Karachi, Pakistan, designed by
Richard Neutra, though symbolic of architecture at a uniquely expansive
political moment, could not be resuscitated and saved in the age of terrorism.
It now faces demolition or a new life as a shopping mall.
With previously unimaginable means that allow for virtual realities, even
immortality is not necessarily dependent on the experience of an original
work and its iterations through time. From the Eiffel Tower to the UNESCO -
listed Austrian village of Hallstatt, duplicated in China, architectural heritage
65
FIGS.8a–b: The UNESCO town of Hallstatt and
its duplicated self in China.
FIG.9

has experienced a new immortality in cloning. Reflecting the copy-paste
function inherent in the digital world, this act of replication leads us to new
questions of afterlife and our means for achieving it. (figs. 8a–b, 9)
The Road to Immortality

With the reuse of spoils as a starting point, the road from plunder to immor-
tality is a long one. Looting in its many forms continued through to the 17th
century, with rare glimpses of a growing awareness of heritage value. In the
Christianization of the late Roman Empire, earlier pagan structures became
the subject of plunder. Building materials were removed and reused for new
construction projects, to the extent that this behavior inadvertently resulted
in the making of policy. A regulation of November 30, 382 AD from the Codex
Theodosianus, a transcription of laws issued in the late Roman Empire,
decreed that the pagan temple “in which images are reported to have
been placed must be measured by the value of their art rather than by their
divinity.”2 This 4th-century law is prescient in its recognition of heritage value,
despite its roots in the objectives of the Christian Roman emperors and their
abhorrence of pagan practice.
Curiosity about antiquity did not resurface again until the Renaissance and
the ancient monuments, both Christian and pagan, succumbed to further
plunder and reuse. Medieval interest in ancient texts, methods and monu-
ments had remained primarily with the clergy. The age of Humanism in the
14th and 15th centuries brought about a revived interest in antiquities and their
restoration. In Rome, papal support included the efforts of Martin V and Pius
II, who issued papal bulls extending protection and maintenance over ancient
monuments. In the 16th century, protectors of the classical monuments in-
cluded artists such as Raphael, whom Leo X appointed as supervisor of
Roman excavations.3 With their deaths and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V’s
Sack of Rome in 1527, the Renaissance of the popes officially came to a
close. The ascension of Paul III to the papacy during the Reformation led to
the establishment of the first Commissioner of Antiquities, Latino Giovenale
Manetti, who was instructed “to ensure that the monuments … are well
maintained as possible, and will be freed of scrub and ivy; no new buildings
will be attached to these and nothing will be demolished, burnt in a limekiln,
or be removed from the city.”4 Despite the clear intention of this charge,
subsequent popes were less overt in their adherence to a preservation of
heritage.
Pope Pius IV, who ascended to the papacy in the Counter Reformation, in-
stead advanced the practice of adaptive reuse. In 1561, he commissioned
Michelangelo to build the Catholic Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli e degli
Martiri within the ruins of the pagan Thermae of Diocletian. The thermae
67
FIG.10: Pope Pius IV.
Painting by Bartolomeo
Passarotti.
FIG.11a: The floor plan of the Baths of Diocletian with the
frigidarium at its center.
FIG.11b: The vaulted remains of the Baths of

Diocletian, 1575, Étienne Du Pérac.
were the largest baths of ancient Rome and accommodated over 3,000
visitors at one time. Its remains, as depicted in artists’ renderings from
Étienne du Pérac to Piranesi, attest to a colossal scale with monumental
architectural features. As an abandoned structure, its potential lay in these
characteristics, which Pope Pius IV viewed as architectural features common
to both the pagan baths and the Christian church. Michelangelo’s church was
built with minimal new exterior construction, inside the frigidarium and
within the existing cross vaults, some still standing. Adapting the remains
of three vaulted rooms, Michelangelo created a Greek cross with a monu-
mental transept of more than 90 meters, derived from the colossal forms of
the existing baths. While in retrospect, this project was a deviation from the
spirit of preservation, it was groundbreaking as an architectural intervention
into an existing structure. (fig. 10)
Surprisingly, there is no formal entrance to this impressive basilica. It is ac-
cessed instead through the remains of a coved apse of the thermae, left in

FIG.11c: Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri converted from the
Baths of Diocletian by Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1563–1564.
its original, ruined form. The relationship of intervention to existing structure

and the decision to retain the ruins as a temporal reference are far-thinking.
The discussion of these relationships as key issues of conservation is not
broached for another 400 years. (figs. 11a–c)
Following upon the example of the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, oth-
er proposals for the reuse of existing monuments such as those pertaining
to the Colosseum illustrate an evolving mind-set in the 16th and 17th centuries.
Surviving a late-15th-century plan for demolition, the Colosseum was the
subject of proposals for new use that included an outdoor theater, a wool
factory with workshops and housing for the wool guild, a Bernini proposal
for a memorial dedicated to Christian martyrdom and a Fontana proposal for
transformation to a basilica. None of these grand schemes of transformation
materialized; it was instead used as a cattle pasture and a manure deposit
until an edict of 1744 by Pope Benedict XIV that “rigorously prohibited prof-
anation of this spot.”5
69
FIG.12: Designation for
national heritage sites
in France.
FIG.13: Stuart and Revett‘s

The Antiquities of Athens, 1755.
In other parts of Europe, the Reformation and Counter Reformation exacted

a toll on ecclesiastical property, from the dissolution of religious houses in
Zurich, Switzerland, to their destruction by Oliver Cromwell in England.
Changes in service requirements resulted in adapted church structures. But
these changes were undertaken as the product of a new sensibility from
England to Scandinavia. A 17th-century proclamation in Sweden, sponsored
by King Karl XI, is exemplary of this spirit. It “provided protection for antiq-
uities and monuments, however insignificant, if they contributed to the
memory of an historic event …”6 This provision is prescient in its expansion
of the role of preservation/conservation. Its application still defines much of
preservation and conservation today, where the recall of time and events
past constitutes a significant part of its framework of purpose. By the late
18th century there was growing acknowledgment of the historic value of
structures, with ensuing attempts at limiting and regulating plunder, which
culminated in a new sensibility to heritage.
While the interest in the value of historic structures was gradual, catalysts
in bringing about this awareness can be attributed to several concurrent
developments. First, the French Revolution of the late 1780s inflicted a vio-
lent toll that included the destruction of many significant structures repre-
sentative of the monarchy and the clergy, from royal tombs to sacred build-
ings. The French government’s recognition of such architectural devastation
resulted in the appointment of a commission to safeguard the nation’s archi-

tectural heritage. This eventually led to the formation of the French Commis-
sion for Historic Monuments (Commission des monuments historiques) and
the publication in 1840 of a first list of 934 historic monuments. Today heri-
tage buildings and sites in France still carry the designation of MH, Monu-
ment Historique. (fig. 12)
The second development is less event-specific and results from a revived
interest in the 18th century for antiquity and archaeology. Inigo Jones’ travel
in the 17th century and his interest in Classicism inspired grand tours in the
18th century. An 18th-century full English translation of Vitruvius’ De Architec-
tura and the 1755 publication by Stuart & Revett of The Antiquities of Athens
and Other Monuments of Greece, with its illustrations of buildings and de-
tails from antiquity, brought about an awareness and subsequent fascination
with the subject. Interest in archaeology led to discoveries of important sites
with found objects and structures, structures that required some form of
preservation, conservation and/or restoration. There were naturally differing
opinions on these issues of preservation. From the 19th century these voices
were heard in a battle over immortality. (fig. 13)
1 Per Olaf Fjeld, Sverre Fehn. The Pattern of Thoughts (New York, NY: The Monacelli Press, 2009),
p. 116. 2 Transl. Clyde Pharr in collaboration with Theresa Sherrer Davidson, Mary Brown Pharr, The
Theodosian Code and Novels, and the Sirmondian Constitutions (New Jersey: The Lawbook Exchange,
Ltd., 2008), p. 472. 3 Alois Riegl, The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (Los Angeles: Getty Research
Institute, 2010), p. 163. 4 Jukka Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation, (Oxford: Butter-
worth-Heinemann, 1999), p. 34. 5 Charles Isidore Hemans, Catholic Italy, Its Institutions and Sanc-
tuaries Pt 2, (Florence: M. Cellini and Co., 1862), p. 13. (Digitized by Oxford University.) 6 John H.
Stubbs, Time Honored: A Global View of Architectural Conservation (Hoboken, N.J.: John Wiley & Sons,
2009), p. 195.
71
The 18th century‘s fascination for antiquities, whet by grand tours and sem-
inal publications, was increasingly sharpened by the archaeological discov-
eries at Ostia, Pompeii and Herculaneum. The unearthing of entire buried
cities with statuary, houses, shops and amphitheaters prompted inquiry into
many different issues, from excavation procedures to the export of objects
to collections outside of Italy. At the close of the century and the start of the
next, the interests in these discoveries and the concerns for a systematic
approach to these excavations posited Italy, specifically Rome and its envi-
rons, with France as significant centers crucial to the development of con-
servation principles for architectural heritage.
With legislation for the protection of ancient monuments supported by the
Papal See, efforts for the restoration of antiquities in Rome attracted many
scholars to the city. The Napoleonic Wars and the annexation of Rome further
intertwined the restoration efforts in Rome with those principles developed
in France addressing the destruction caused by the French Revolution. The
foremost scholar of classical antiquities of his time, Johann Joachim Winckel
mann, a classicist from Dresden, Germany, was nominated the Chief Com-
missioner of Antiquities in Rome in 1763. His experience with the burgeon-
ing but unregulated archaeological excavations at Herculaneum led to the
formation of a critical theory: the need to preserve ancient art in its original
form. With a reliance on scientific evidence, Winckelmann’s theory differen-
tiated between the original work and later additions and subtractions, a sem-
inal differentiation that was a precursor to later conservationist ideas for built
structures. The views on antiquity of Neoclassical sculptor Antonio Canova,
Ispettore delle Belle Arti in 1802, responsible for policy and quality control
in the inspection and evaluation of antiquities and works of art,1 paralleled
Winckelmann’s as evidenced by his refusal to restore the Elgin Marbles from

FIG.0: Clockwise from top left: William Morris, Abbé Henri Grégoire, Rem Koolhaas, Alois Riegl.
04
Immortals
Battle of the
the Parthenon. The Abbé Henri Grégoire, a prelate and part of a commission
responsible for the protection of monuments, coined the term “vandalism”
with respect to the destruction of French property. By the use of this word,
he noted that “[P]ublic monuments should remind [the people] of its cour-
age, its triumphs, its rights, its dignity; they should speak a language intel-
ligible to everyone, that should be the vehicle of patriotism and virtue, qual-
ities which should penetrate the citizens through all the senses.”2 His
viewpoint established the role of architectural heritage as documentary
evidence in the understanding of history. Quatremère de Quincy, in his role
as secretary of the Académie des Beaux-Arts and the Intendant général des
arts et monuments publiques, defined “restoration” 3 in his 1832 Dictionnaire
Historique d’Architecture first and foremost as the repair of an ancient mon-
ument. Acquainted with Winckelmann’s ideas and a friend of Canova’s, Qua-
tremère advocated the return of museum objects to their rightful owners. In
doing so he established the importance of cultural context in the discussion
of heritage value. Relating directly to artifacts and monuments, these voices
provided a backdrop for the contentious opinions that emerged in the mid-
to late 19th century regarding the proper treatment of those same artifacts
and monuments as heritage.
With the restoration of the Bourbons in the July Revolution of 1830, the
position of Inspector General for the Historic Monuments of France was
established to oversee the inventory of damaged historic monuments and
to begin the process of restoring them. By 1849, the 934 monuments enu-
merated in the first inventory of buildings in dire need of repairs of 1840 had
grown to 3,000 monuments. The Abbey of La Madeleine at Vézelay was one
project meriting immediate priority. Its restoration by Eugène Emmanuel
Viollet-le-Duc led to commissions of similar projects at Notre-Dame de Paris
and Carcassonne, projects that were pivotal in the discussion of the resto-
ration of heritage.
Of great significance in the development of the Gothic style in the 12th cen-
tury, the Romanesque nave of La Madeleine of Vézelay, by the 19th century,
lay in a ruinous state, pervious to water infiltration and growth. Viollet-le-Duc’s
project to repair the collapsed nave exemplifies some early dilemmas of
restoration. It focused on the compromised structure of buttresses, trans-
verse arches and roof, built in the Romanesque style and rebuilt after a col-
lapse in a later Gothic style. The reconstruction of these stylistically diverse
areas enabled Viollet-le-Duc to form a theory of restoration. He chose to
rebuild the Gothic vaults to an earlier Romanesque style to provide, in his
view, an aesthetic coherence to the whole.
The further evolution of this approach is evident in his project at the Cathedral
of Notre-Dame de Paris. Begun in the 12th century, the church had been
modified over six centuries with changes to both the interior and the exteri-
or. While the proposed restoration of Viollet-le-Duc (and his partner Jean-Bap-

tiste Lassus) was based on the principle of restoring each part to its own
style, scant architectural information in fact resulted in work that was based
on an idea of what he believed may have existed rather than on evidence.
At Notre-Dame, critics maintained that when he completed his restoration
“all signs of previous alterations by royalty and clergy, of destruction by mobs,
revolutions and former misguided repairs and restorations, as well as the
decay of six centuries, had been removed.”4
Viollet-le-Duc’s approach became solidified as theory in the restoration of the
city of Carcassonne. A Roman fortification modified in the 13th century, the
military fort had lost its function by the 19th century. Resulting reuse over time
of its material caused the loss of a great part of the structure, especially at
the upper levels of the various edifices. Commissioned in 1846 to study the
restoration of the entire fortification, Viollet-le-Duc brought the entire city to
a hypothetical Gothic vision, ignoring its earlier roots. Having consolidated
his definition of restoration by this time, he felt that “[b]oth the word and the
thing are modern. To restore an edifice means neither to maintain it, nor to
repair it, nor to rebuild it; it means to reestablish it in a finished state, which
may in fact never have actually existed at any given time.”5 (figs. 1a–b)
Behind these now renown and notorious words lay the dilemma of the res-
toration of structures that were completed over a lengthy period of time
and in several styles. While this definition of restoration met approval in
France and was accepted by many institutions in Europe and the USA, it
unleashed a furious debate on the principles of restoration and the extent
of such efforts. Proponents of Viollet-le-Duc’s interpretation of history in
reconstruction advocated stylistic restorations. They felt strongly that resto-
ration of this nature perpetuated the monuments’ function in society, differ-
entiating between “dead“ and “living“ monuments. This type of restoration
was referred to as “in the style of” its restorer.
Critics of Viollet-le-Duc and stylistic restoration formed an anti-restoration
contingency that eventually became the basis of the modern conservation
movement. This movement was based primarily in England with John Ruskin
as one of its earliest advocates. In The Seven Lamps of Architecture, Ruskin
is unequivocal that restoration “means the most total destruction which a
building can suffer: a destruction out of which no remnants can be gathered;
a destruction accompanied with false description of the thing destroyed …” 6
He argued that “[w]e have no right whatsoever to touch them.”7 Instead he
proposed “… neither [to] have repairs nor things ruined … Let them take the
greatest possible care of all they have got, and when care will preserve it no
longer, let it perish inch by inch.”8 With these strong words, Ruskin estab-
lished the concept of maintenance.
Fellow critics of restoration agreed for the most part with Ruskin’s stance.
Their differences in shades of interpretation ultimately encouraged mainte-
nance and repair of ancient structures as the alternative to restoration. In
75
FIG.1a: Carcassonne before …
1862, Sir George Gilbert Scott presented a paper to the RIBA proposing a
classification system of ancient architecture for the application of conserva-
tion practices. This led to the 1865 publication of a set of practical rules en-
titled Conservation of Ancient Monuments and Remains. Twelve years later,
in 1877, William Morris founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient
Monuments (SPAB). The principles of this society were delineated in what
is now known as the Manifesto, a condemnation of restoration and a call “to
put Protection in the place of Restoration, to stave off decay by daily care,
to prop a perilous wall or mend a leaky roof by such means as are obviously
meant for support or covering, and show no pretence of other art, and oth-
erwise to resist all tampering with either the fabric or ornament of the build-
ing as it stands.”9 In Morris’ eyes, a work of heritage included additions and
alterations that, undisturbed, represented an authenticity of material. The
manifesto established authenticity as a value and extended this authenticity
to a wide range of structures. The notion of authenticity applied to “anything
which can be looked on as artistic, picturesque, historical, antique, or sub-
stantial: any work in short, over which educated, artistic people would think
it worthwhile to argue at all.”10
The voices of Ruskin and Morris reverberated beyond England with its anti-
restoration sentiments, dividing opinion on the immortality of monuments.

FIG.1b: … and after restoration by Viollet-le-Duc.
Supporters of both groups included architects as well as artists and writers

from many parts of Europe: France, Germany, Italy, Austria. They included
Anatole France, Gottfried Semper, Hermann Muthesius, Camillo Boito. This
polarization defined the discussion of heritage and its reuse in the latter part
of the 19th century. There were equal demonstrations of both camps: protest
against the restoration of the Frauenkirche in Munich, Germany, versus the
full reconstruction of Knossos, Crete, by Sir Arthur Evans. It was not until the
beginning of the 20th century that the conservation movement gained momen-
tum, influencing the direction of the afterlives of structures.
Viollet-le-Duc, John Ruskin, William Morris — these were prophets prosely-
tizing to a 19th-century audience yet unformed in their views of heritage. The
fervent and often confrontational language between the two groups found
a subtler, more nuanced expression in the early 20th century. With the ma-
turing of conservationist ideas, there was a realization that neither of these
views was absolute. In fact, there was recognition that past restoration ef-
forts, style aside, contributed to the salvation of monuments that would
otherwise have been lost. In the early 20th century, theories emerged that
acknowledged the problems of stylistic restoration while tempering the ex-
treme anti-restoration rhetoric. With the realization that conservation would,
by necessity, need to extend beyond maintenance and repair for a continued
77
existence, these theories address many basic issues that remain at the
forefront of conservation/preservation today. How do we define heritage?
What do we conserve? How do we determine its value? What is its relation-
ship with history? With art? And its inverse: what do we not conserve? And
what does this mean for the afterlife of a structure?
The varied responses to these questions clarified positions for the practices
of conservation and preservation, leading eventually to formalized regula-
tions. Over time, however, an unpredented number of structures came to
be protected as heritage under these guidelines. Within this framework, the
19th-century question of “continued existence” for heritage sites would take
on new signficance directly relating to the purpose of such structures. From
the small intersection of the polarized interests of restorationists and con-
servationists in the question of a possible continued existence would ulti-
mately emerge consideration of sites both with and without cultural signif-
icance. At the turn of the century, Austrian art historian Alois Riegl led this
effort through his attempt to define a value system by which to differentiate
between monuments in his 1903 essay, “The Modern Cult of Monuments:
Its Essence and Its Development.” These debates continued but were
brought to new significance with the losses wreaked by the First and then
the Second World Wars. The destruction brought about an international effort
to put in place regulations for the conservation of monuments. (fig. 2)
1 Jukka Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation, (Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann, 1992),

p. 75. 2 Anthony Vidler, “The Paradoxes of Vandalism,” in Jeremy D. Popkin and R. H. Popkin, eds.,
The Abbé Grégoire and His World, (Dordecht:Springer, 2000), p. 136. 3 Quatremère de Quincy, Dic-
tionnaire Historique d’Architecture, (Paris: Librarie D’Adrien Le Clere, 1832), p. 375. 4 Daniel D.
Rieff,
“Viollet Le Duc and Historic Restoration: The West Portals of Notre Dame,” Journal of the Society of
Architectural Historians, Vol. 30, No. 1, March 1971, p. 17. 5 Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, “Res-
toration,” in The Foundations of Architecture: Selections from the Dictionnaire Raisonné, trans. Kenneth
D. Whitehead (New York, NY: George Braziller, Inc, 1990), p. 195. 6 John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps
of Architecture (London: George Allen, 1889), p. 195. 7 Ibid., p. 197. 8 John Ruskin, “Letter to
His Father 1845”, in The Works of John Ruskin, (London: G. Allen, 1901), p. 49. 9 William Morris,
“Manifesto of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings,” from “The Principles of the Society
[for the Protection of Ancient Buildings] As Set Forth Upon Its Foundation,” Builder 35 (August 25,
1877). 10 Ibid. 11 Cesare Brandi, “Theory of Restoration, I,” in Nicholas Price, M. Kirby Talley,
Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vacarro, eds., Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of
Cultural Heritage (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996), p. 230.

...put Protection in the place of
Restoration, to stave off decay by daily
care
To restore an edifice means neither to maintain it, nor to
79
repair it, nor to rebuild it; it means to reestablish it in a
finished state, which in fact may never have actually
existed at any given time.
Let them take the greatest possible care of all they have got,
and when care will preserve it no longer, let it perish inch
by inch.
The real museum of Rome, the one to which I spoke,
consists, it is true, of statues, Colossi, temples, obe-
lisks...etc. etc.; but it does not consist less of places,
sites, mountains, careers, ancient tales, of the
respective positions of the desolate cities [...]
There is but one way for the moderns to become
great, and perhaps unequalled; I mean, by imitating
the ancients.
FIG.2
The contentious dialogue of the mid- to late 19th century between the re-
spective proponents of restoration and conservation may be understood as
a part of a larger conversation — one elicited by shifting attitudes towards life
and God. The act to “restore,” in the meaning of Viollet-le-Duc, to a state
“which may in fact never have actually existed”1 is, in a sense, a belief in a
resurrection to a place unknown and unimaginable, a place beyond space
and time. The hope of immortality implicit in this concept of restoration,
rooted in a feudal mind-set of a spiritual culture, was one that by the 19th
century had widely outlived its pertinence. The mid- to late 19th century of
Ruskin and Morris was a place dramatically altered by the realities of the
dawn of industrialism and a sea change of ideas. Blind faith as a corollary of
a primarily agrarian society had slowly been replaced by the uncertainties
inherent in a society ensconced in the new industrial capitalism. These
doubts in the divine eternity culminated in the late 19th century with Friedrich
Nietzsche’s declaration: “The most important of more recent events — that
‘God is dead’; that the belief in the Christian God has become unworthy of
belief — already begins to cast its first shadows over Europe.”2 (fig. 1)
Such doubts had already begun to seep into the fabric of society prior to the
advent of the Industrial Revolution. German philosopher Georg Wilhelm
Hegel, whose life paralleled the First Industrial Revolution, voiced them with
regard to art in his lectures on Aesthetics at the University of Heidelberg in
the 1820s. “The conditions of our present time are not favourable to art. It
is not, as might be supposed, merely that the practising artist himself is
infected by the loud voice of reflection all around him and by the opinions
and judgements on art that have become customary everywhere … the point
is that our whole spiritual culture is of such a kind that he himself stands
within the world of reflection and its relations, and could not by any act of

FIG.0: Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, Caspar David Friedrich, Hamburger Kunsthalle. (manipulated detail)
05
Redefined
Immortality
FIG.1: Georg Wilhelm
Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831).
FIG.2: Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

(1844–1900).
will and decision abstract himself of it …” 3 Speaking of a world that “no

longer affords that satisfaction of spiritual needs which earlier ages and
nations sought …”4 marks a paradigm shift from the familial parameters of
farm and God to that of worker in a capitalistic society. Nietzsche refers to
the new spirit as “… something invulnerable, unburiable … within me, some-
thing that breaks rocks: it is called my will.”5 Relying on oneself to negotiate
the challenges of a changed world, American Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo
Emerson called for “Self-Reliance” in an essay that speaks also to a dimin-
ished dependence on government and religion. In this light, the stances of
the conservationists can be viewed as a need to focus on the potential of
the “here and now” rather than on the lure of afterlife. In an analogy to human
mortality, Ruskin offered, in place of immortality, the embrace of aging and
a natural death. Morris, with his advocacy of maintenance and care, promot-
ed a slightly less passive program akin to regular doctor’s visits with even-
tual hospice care. In the developing history of conservation/preservation,
these were the viable alternatives to restoration. (figs. 1, 2)
The effect of Ruskin’s writings and William Morris’ anti-restoration Society
for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB) Manifesto reverberated
through many parts of Europe, influencing the early development of conser-

FIG.3: Georg Gottfried Julius
Dehio (1850–1932).
vation practice. The many individual contributions from late 19th century
Western Europe further broadened this practice. While this history is not the
focus of this book, some key individual concepts resulting from this time are
crucial to the understanding, formation and development of adaptive reuse
practice. In France, where “… the state had refused to take part in the
maintenance of historic monuments, … the attitude of the central govern-
ment gradually changed, and priority was given to the repair of buildings …” 6
In Germany, the sentiments against restoration grew and instances such as
the restoration of the Frauenkirche in Munich provoked “the first public Ger-
man Debate about restoration and its effects on the integrity of an historic
building.”7 Architects like Hermann Muthesius advocated maintenance rath-
er than restoration or reconstruction. While establishing this concept within
society, these accompanying conversations extended the discussion of con-
servation beyond individual monuments. In turn-of-the-century Austria,
Georg Dehio, sometimes referred to as the “founder of German architectur-
al conservation,”8 is credited with the commandment, “conservation, not
restoration,”9 and the statement: “We conserve a monument not because
we consider it beautiful but because it is a piece of our national life.”10 Cham-
pioning the cause of conservation, he extended its motivation beyond aes-
thetics and history to the realm of political importance.11 In the same period,
Austrian architect Adolf Loos, in an article of 1907, stated that “heritage was
conceived as extending from monument to historic areas, and from signifi-
cant natural features to whole landscapes …”12 In Italy, civil engineer, aca-
demic and art and urban studies scholar Gustavo Giovannoni “expanded the
use of [Boito’s] restauro scientifico (scientific restoration) a pproach (also
called archaeological restoration) for all historic buildings, not just classical
monuments … He particularly emphasized the formerly discounted value of
83
FIG.4: Adolf Franz Karl Viktor
Maria Loos (1870–1933).
the ’minor architecture‘ of historic urban centers and towns, which makes
an important contribution to the overall historic environment.”13 Introducing
the concept of “diradamento, or ‘thinning out’ the urban fabric” 14 in the
modernization of Rome, he proposed the principle of ‘selective restoration’
in which historic centers could be represented by buildings of a key period
that characterizes a district.”15 As an alternative approach to an indiscriminate
demolition of historic areas, buildings of lesser significance could be demol-
ished to make way for modern amenities, such as open spaces and circula-
tion. (fig. 3)
Despite these defining and progressive early-20th-century ideas, the “roots
of preservation lay in a conservative impulse to guard against revolutionary
historicide.”16 Its accepted aim remained that of safeguarding; the idea of
reusing monuments for a different function had not yet arrived. While ex-
tending the breadth of the notion and practice of conservation on the one
hand, Adolf Loos, in 1910, corroborated the conservative view, on the other
hand, in an analogy between monuments and art, positing them together as
opposites to functional architecture. “The work of art is a private matter for
the artist. The house is not. The work of art is brought into the world without
a direct need for it. The house satisfies a requirement. The work of art is
responsible to none; the house is responsible to everyone.”17 Focusing on

the artistic aspect of a monument, this comparison conveyed the contem-
porary sentiment that “monuments are divorced from any contemporary
use.”18 (fig. 4)
In this respect, and in an interesting parallel to restoration, the aim of pres-
ervation until the early 20th century remained somewhat aligned with Chris-
tian resurrection, akin to Jesus’ resurrection from death in perpetuity at
age 33. The fallacy of this aim for conservation was its reliance on the abili-
ty to maintain an object, a monument, at its original state while doing so at
a different time. Some claim that this type of conservation is simply a deni-
al of time, time being an ever-changing element. After all, even Jesus
changed with resurrection: eight days after his death the resurrected Jesus
walked through locked doors to appear to his disciples,19 an ability never
mentioned prior to his death. Forty days after crucifixion, he ascended to
heaven and was never seen again on earth, his new existence entirely alien
to that prior to his death. Resurrection is in itself a transformative act that
involves change. “Change is far more radical than we are at first inclined to
suppose,”20 wrote Nobel laureate Henri Bergson in Creative Evolution, an
anti-Darwinian theory of evolution published in 1907. Applying this thought
to the idea of restoration/conservation, it can be said that “[p]reservation
begins with the act of recognizing the diverse transformations monuments
have undergone in time. This recognition is also an insight into the under-
standing of preservation as another transformation.”21
A unique recognition of this understanding is the example of the Ise Jingu
in Mie Prefecture of Ise, Japan. The Ise Jingu is a Shinto shrine complex
dedicated to the goddess Amaterasu Omikami dating to the Heian Period.
In keeping with Shinto beliefs, the two shrine buildings are torn down and
rebuilt every 20 years. This tradition exemplifies “all that is authentic by ac-
knowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and
nothing is perfect.”22 The process of renewing through rebuilding is intended
“to preserve the original architect’s design against the otherwise eroding
effects of time.”23 This action both recognizes and accepts the change that
is inherent in time. It rejects preservation of the existing physical object.
Rather, in replicating the original design explicitly, it perpetuates and trans-
mits artisan skill, tradition and culture to the next generation. As a singular
intervention that denies time and, in doing so, authenticity, this tradition is
uniquely antithetical to the concept of adaptive reuse, a practice premised
upon transformative change over time. (fig. 5)
Other forms of preservation in the wider sense since the late 19th century,
however — from Viollet-le-Duc’s restoration of Carcassonne and Arthur Evan’s
re-creation of Knossos to the restoration of the Parthenon and the excava-
tion/restoration of Pompeii and Herculaneum — have striven to preserve
structures from change. Today, such preserved sites are museums, and con-
trary to Loos‘ classification they serve a function other than their original
85
one. If preservation is indeed a transformation, then with hindsight this act,
which since the late 19th century has changed many monuments, can be
perceived as the introduction of a new and contemporary function to the
existing monument. Acceptance of such an idea would require a confluence
of minds at a later time. In the meantime, with a general consensus on the
breadth of conservation, investigations progressed towards the develop-
ment of a systematized understanding of heritage. (figs. 6, 7)
Austrian art historian Alois Riegl made such an attempt at systematization in
his 1903 essay, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Devel-
opment.” In this seminal piece, he introduced a value system that in sum
allowed for the evaluation and differentiation of monuments or works of art.
His definition of historic preservation as the ”modern cult of monuments” led
to the differentiation of “artistic and historical monuments” and ”deliberate
monuments.” In making such a distinction, Riegl, like Hegel, acknowledged
the effect of shifting contemporary ideas on the concept of artistic value.
Establishing that “everything that once was can never be again, and that
everything that once was forms an irreplaceable and inextricable link in a
FIG.6: UNESCO World Heritage site Carcassonne,

restored by Viollet-le-Duc.

FIG.5: The shrines at the Ise Grand Shrine
complex in Japan are rebuilt every 20 years.
FIG.7: The Cretan Palace of Knossos restored

by Sir Arthur Evans.
87
FIG.8: Alois Riegl (1858–1905).
FIG.9: Riegl’s values for the

evaluation of monuments.
chain of development,”24 he concluded that the artistic monument and the

historical monument must in fact be, in some ways, merged. (fig. 8)
In this classification, historical monuments are unintentional as opposed to
“deliberate monuments”; both, however, have commemorative values that
can be categorized. In establishing age value, historical value and deliberate
commemorative value as related determinants for viewing a work, Riegl
raised issues of intention, emotional appeal, objectivity, aesthetics and per-
petuity. He also considered the “present day” values of use and newness
as additional determinants. Together these values form a quasi-rubric that
allows us to evaluate complex relationships when judging and assessing
monuments and their continued existence. (fig. 9)
A different type of classification was proposed by one of the “founding fig-
ures of modern Italian conservation,” Camillo Boito. In his 1893 Questioni
pratiche di belle arti, restauri, concorsi, legislazione, professione insegna-
mento, a theory in the form of a Socratic dialogue, he suggested “to divide

the art of restoration” into corresponding historic periods: Antiquity for the
first quality, Middle Ages for the second and Renaissance for the third.25 By
such classification Boito intentionally acknowledged the existence of addi-
tions to monuments over time and the subjectivity with which these addi-
tions are viewed. He proposed an eight-point system as a set of guidelines
to distinguish between the original and subsequent interventions. These
points underscore the need to differentiate between the new and the old
through stylistic construction and material differences as well as more overt
documentation of each phase of new work. Boito’s proposal lays the foun-
dation for the differentiation of interventions in later preservation documents
of the 20th century.
The theories of Riegl, Boito and others expand on the evaluation of heritage,
case by case, criteria by criteria. These methods each allude to differences,
great and slight, in types of heritage that require appropriate courses of
action. In this context, early-20th-century individuals contributed to the de-
veloping methods of conservation (and subsequently reuse) focused on rec-
ognizing and preserving heritage. It is a period in which systems were de-
veloped that would pave the way for universal guidelines that still serve as
the basis of international conservation regulations today. In this develop-
ment, with its expansions beyond immortality, lie the roots of adaptive reuse
practice.
1 Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, On Restoration (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Low and Searle, 1875),
p. 9. 2 Friedrich Nietzsche (ed. Bernard Williams, transl. Josefine Nauckhoff), The Gay Science
(Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 199. 3 G. W. F. Hegel, Hegel’s Aesthetics:
Lectures on Fine Art, transl. T. M. Knox (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), p. 11. 4 Ibid., p. 10.
5 Friedrich Nietzsche (transl. Thomas Common), Thus Spake Zarathustra. A Book for All and None
(Project Gutenberg EBook #1998, release date 2008), Verse XXXIII, “The Grave Song.” 6 Jukka
Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation (Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann, 1992),
p. 187. 7 John H. Stubbs, Time Honored: A Global View of Architectural Conservation, (Hoboken,
NJ: Wiley & Sons, 2009), p. 231. 8 Ibid., p. 232. 9 “Georg Dehio, [Gottfried Julius],” Dictionary of
Art Historians, https://dictionaryofarthistorians.org/index.htm (accessed December 7, 2015). 10 Rudy
Koshar, Germany’s Transient Pasts: Preservation and National Memory in the 20th Century (Chapel Hill:
University of North Carolina Press, 1998), p. 32. 11 Jokilehto, p. 217. 12 Jokilehto, p. 201.
13 Stubbs, p. 16. 14 Guido Zucconi, “Gustavo Giovannoni: A Theory and a Practice of Urban Con-
servation,” Change Over Time, Vol. 4, No. 1, Spring 2014, p. 76–91. 15 Zucconi, p. 80. 16 Koshar,
p. 34. 17 Adolf Loos, “Architektur” (1910), translation from The Architecture of Adolf Loos: An Arts
Council Exhibition (London: the Arts Council, 1985), p. 104. 18 Manuel Martín-Hernández, “Time
and Authenticity,” Future Anterior, Vol. 11, No. 2, Winter 2014, p. 42. 19 The Bible, New King James
Version (Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1982), John 20:24. 20 Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution (New York,
NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), p. 1. 21 Martín-Hernández, p. 43. 22 Richard R. Powel, Wabi
Sabi Simple (Avon, MA: Adams Media, 2004), p. 19. 23 Rachel Nuwer, “This Japanese Shrine Has
Been Torn Down & Rebuilt Every 20 Years for the Past Millennium,” Smithsonian.com (accessed Octo-
ber 4, 2013). 24 Alois Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Development,”
in Nicholas Price, M. Kirby Talley, Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vacarro, eds., Historical and Philosophical
Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996),
p. 70. 25 Camillo Boito, ”Questioni pratiche di belle art: restauri, concorsi, legislazione, professione
insegnamento,” transl. Cesare Birignani as “Restoration in Architecture: First Dialogue,” in Future
Anterior, University of Minnesota Press, Vol. 6, No. 1, 2009, p. 69.
89
National policies on the conservation of architectural heritage were emerg-
ing by the early 20th century within many countries of Western Europe as
well as in parts of the USA, Asia and some Islamic states, but there was no
formalized agreement or policy between them. There was indeed a need for
such a policy, its urgency mandated by late-19th-century issues of repatriation
of art and architecture, such as the paintings looted by Napoleon, the Elgin
Marbles looted by the British or the Altar of Pergamon looted by the Ger-
mans. While the concept of a universal heritage was not unfamiliar to 17th-
and 18th-century philosophers such as Locke, de Vattel and Kant, the formal
acknowledgment of common values among man would not emerge until the
mid-20th century with the 1954 introduction of the modern term “Common
Heritage of Mankind” at the Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultur-
al Property in the Event of Armed Conflict. (fig. 1)
Inextricably intertwined with the evolution of international law, the develop-
ment of such policy finds its roots in the 1874 International Declaration Con-
cerning the Laws and Customs of War, adopted at the Conference of Brus-
sels, which established that the occupier of a state could only be considered
as usufructuary of the properties. In particular, “… [e]very seizure, destruc-
tion of, or wilful damage to, such establishments, historical monuments, or
works of art … should be prosecuted by the competent authorities.” 1 As-
pects of this document led to the codification of the protection of cultural
property under the broad term of “public buildings and property” at both
Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907.2 Without the exigencies of actual
warfare, however, these precautionary provisos lacked specificity and pur-
pose. It was only in the wake of the First World War, with its devastation of
monuments in Europe, that tangible efforts were made for cooperation be-
tween nations on issues of heritage.

FIG.0: U.S. Generals inspect stolen art treasures hidden in a salt mine in Germany, April 1945.
06
Codified
Immortality
The Athens Charter 1931
The peace negotiated after the First World War led to the establishment of
organizations for creating international cooperation on conservation. The In-
ternational Museums Office was established in 1926 through the League of
Nations to organize “international conferences on matters of importance for
the international museum community.”3 In 1931, a meeting was organized
in Athens at the First International Congress of Architects and Technicians
of Historic Monuments to discuss the conservation of architectural monu-
ments. Attended by representatives of 23 countries, the meeting concluded
in a document now known as the Athens Charter of 1931, the first interna-
tional policy on modern conservation. The Athens Charter comprised seven
main resolutions addressing the need for cooperation through national and
international advisory legislative groups for knowledgeable restoration and
historic preservation, the protection of historic sites and surrounding areas
and the use of modern techniques and materials for restoration.
Several key points discussed in the general conclusions of the Athens Char-
ter 1931, important for the establishment of new ideas towards modern
conservation, impacted the development of adaptive reuse practice:
The Conference recommends that the occupation of buildings, which

ensures the continuity of their life, should be maintained but that
they should be used for a purpose which respects their historic or
artistic character. (From Section I. DOCTRINES. GENERAL PRINCIPLES)
The experts heard various communications concerning the use of

modern materials for the consolidation of ancient monuments. They
approved the judicious use of all the resources at the disposal of
modern technique and more especially of reinforced concrete. They
specified that this work of consolidation should whenever possible
be concealed in order that the aspect and character of the restored
monument be preserved. (From Section III. AESTHETIC ENHANCEMENT OF
ANCIENT MONUMENTS)
In the case of ruins, scrupulous conservation is necessary, and steps

should be taken to reinstate any original fragments that may be re-
covered (anastylosis), whenever this is possible; the new materials
used for this purpose should in all cases be recognisable. (From Section VI.
THE TECHNIQUE OF CONSERVATION )
The impact of these points in the Athens Charter of 1931 on the emergence
of adaptive reuse practice cannot be overstated. With the acknowledgment

FIG.1
of the reuse of a historic building as one based in continuity and with p

urpose,
the Doctrines’ section established the concept of adaptive reuse. With the
implication that a new and different intervention must introduce modern
materials where anastylosis is not possible, these concepts paved the way
for the design intervention, a salient principle of adaptive reuse practice.
The Athens Charter 1933

The IV International Congress of Modern Architecture (CIAM) also met in
Athens two years later. Their meeting resulted in a document named “Char-
ter of Athens (1933).” The focus of this meeting was not the conservation of
monuments but “the functional city” in urban planning and development. Le
Corbusier, a key member of the Congress, published La Charte d’Athènes
1933, elaborating upon the points made in the group document. While the
majority of the points were directly related to city planning, the recommen-
dations regarding historic cities provided interesting insight on adaptive re-
use in the urban fabric.
Under the category “Historic Heritage of Cities,” points 65 to 70 addressed
“architectural assets [that] must be protected, whether found in isolated build-
ings or in urban aggregations. They will be protected if they are the expression
of a former culture …,”4 with the proviso, however, that such protection should
not entail the perpetuation of slum conditions around monuments, which are
recognized as “… regrettable but inevitable.”5 The final point speaks to the
“harmful consequences [of] the practice of using styles of the past on aes-
thetic pretexts for new structures erected in historic areas … Never has a
93
FIG.2: The devastation of Cologne, 1945.
FIG.3: Ruins of St. Mark‘s Campanile 14 July

1902.
return to the past been recorded, never has man retraced his own steps …
The mingling of the ‘false’ with the ‘genuine,’ far from attaining an impression
of unity and from giving a sense of purity of style, merely results in artificial
reconstruction capable only of discrediting the authentic testimonies that we
were most moved to preserve.”6 Both Athens Charters — 1931 and 1933 —
advanced the boundaries of conserving and of adding to existing monuments,
especially with evolving references to style and authenticity.
The immense devastation of the Second World War with the total destruction
of entire cities questioned and tested these positions. The plight of historic
cities obliterated by war was instrumental to the discussion on authenticity.
While restoration as reconstruction was no longer truly viable with the ad-
vancement of conservation policies in the 20th century, the idea was never-

FIGS.4a–c: Market Square, Warsaw, c. 1900,
c. 1945, c. 2012.
theless considered anew in these particular circumstances. With unique

precedents of restoration/reconstruction, such as the reconstruction of Ven-
ice’s Campanile after its 1902 collapse or the rebuilding of Athens’ Acropolis
after Greece’s War of Independence, the case for complete and total resto-
ration/reconstruction was deemed acceptable in “those cases in which nat-
ural disasters or human events caused catastrophic damage. In such cases
it was seen as acceptable to reproduce a monument exactly as it once was.”7
The total restoration/reconstruction of Warsaw to its prewar state — at least
on the exterior — was one such case. The modernized interior of the struc-
tures, however, disconnected from the facades, differentiated this instance
of restoration as an afterlife akin to the resurrection of Lazarus rather than
that of Christ. The rebuilding of Rotterdam, equally demolished in the war,
95
FIG.5: United Nations
Educational, Scientific
and Cultural Organiza-
tion, created 1945.
as a totally modern city provided a polar viewpoint and an opposite strategy

of reincarnation. (figs. 2, 3, 4a–c)
The aftermath of the Second World War also led to renewed efforts in inter-
national cooperation for the conservation of monuments and heritage: the
League of Nations, founded after the First World War, became the Organiza-
tion of United Nations in 1945; the International Committee of Intellectual
Cooperation, an advisory of the League of Nations, became part of the Unit-
ed Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO ) in
1945 and the International Museums Office became the International Coun-
cil of Museums (ICOM ) in 1946. In 1956, the International Centre for the
Study of the Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Property (ICCROM ) was
created at a UNESCO session as “an intergovernmental centre for the study
and improvement of methods of restoration.”8 And the International Council
on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS ), an advisory body of the World Heritage
Committee for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention of
UNESCO, was created in 1965 “to promote the conservation, protection, use
and enhancement of monuments, building complexes and sites.”9 More than
half a century later, these organizations remain relevant. They not only main-
tain the founding principles of the conservation of heritage but expand upon
them beyond buildings and monuments to fostering abstract ideals such as
peace, education, freedom of expression and sustainability. (fig. 5)
Among the various theories that emerged in the post-war period, the work
of Cesare Brandi stands out for its far-reaching ideas that influenced the
development of principles in international policy as well as in UNESCO mis-
sions. His 1963 Teoria del restauro (Theory of Restoration)10 defines resto-
ration as “any kind of intervention that permits a product of human activity
to recover its function …,“11 with a differentiation between the restoration of
industrial products (as common objects) and works of art. In the former, the
aim of restoration would “be to reestablish the functional properties of the
product”12 and in the latter, “to reestablish the potential unity of the work of

art, as long as this is possible without producing an artistic or historical forg-
ery and without erasing every trace of the passage of time left on the work
of art.”13 Such a differentiation in the understanding of “function” between
common object and work of art and, more so, between restoration and
other possible interventions to a “work of art,” serves to clarify the ambigu-
ity of “preservation” itself. For “works of art,” adaptive reuse is distinguished
by a change of function rather than the recovery of function. While the reuse
of non-heritage structures as “art” would not emerge for some decades,
Brandi’s definition offers a fascinating point of departure for such consider-
ation. Within the confines of his definition, utilitarian structures such as
warehouses or defunct power plants, not considered “works of art,” might
be considered “common objects.” In this light, the re-establishment of their
functional properties might be a restoration of resuscitation in which adap-
tive reuse would play a part.
In addition, the latter part of Brandi’s definition applied to monuments es-
tablishes the importance of the creative process in the work of art. Jukka
Jokilehto, formerly the Assistant to the Director General of ICCROM and
actively involved in UNESCO, underscores the importance and far-reaching
implication of this point in that “[r]ecognition is a fundamental part of the
process, because this is the basis that will guide one’s critical judgment of
the necessary analysis and treatments that should follow.”14 Within this
framework Brandi also addresses the dilemma of the restoration/conserva-
tion of additions: “an addition to a work of art is nothing more than new
testimony to human activity and, thus, is part of history … Consequently,
the conservation of an addition is the norm, removal the exception.”15 Expand-
ing further, he maintains “that every restoration should not prevent but,
rather, facilitate possible future restorations.”16 These critical arguments
stand as a backdrop to the development of significant international policy in
the following year.
The Venice Charter

The 2nd International Congress of Architects and Technicians of Historic Doc-
uments was held in Venice in 1964. Through ICOMOS , the Congress adopted
the Venice Charter, a key document that reexamined the basic principles
defined in the Athens Charter of 1931, and enhanced its scope, based on
new evidence and critical development since. The Venice Charter of 1964
comprises 16 articles that together address six topics: the historic monu-
ment, objectives of conservation practice, objectives of restoration practice,
care of historic sites, excavations and documentation. It broadened the term
“historic monument“ with a definition that encompassed not only a single
work but also an entire setting with historic significance. The designation of
97
HERITAGE?
FIG.6 FIG.7: Oscar Niemeyer’s National
Congress building in Brasilia, Frank
Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater in Bear
Run and the Apollo lunar landing site
on the moon.
monument was extended to modest works that “acquired cultural signifi-

cance with the passing of time.”17 Finally it introduced the concept that mon-
uments are conserved and restored “no less as works of art than as histori-
cal evidence.”18
The Venice Charter made a clear distinction between conservation, whose
purpose is to maintain, and restoration whose “aim is to preserve and reveal
the aesthetic and historic value of the monument.”19 Within this differentia-
tion, it established some basic protective principles of conservation through
the prohibition of “construction, demolition or modification” of all or part of
the monument while re-enforcing through further clarification of what was
already stated in the Athens Charter, namely that conservation is facilitated
by “making use of [monuments] for some socially useful purpose.”20 At the
same time, it set limits on restoration, requiring a basis in original substance
and authentic documents as well as establishing a proviso that restoration
must stop “at the point where conjecture begins.”21 The Venice Charter fur-
ther added that “any extra work which is indispensable must be distinct from
the architectural composition and must bear a contemporary stamp.”22 This
latter part of the clause has been interpreted broadly and is, in fact, a raison

FIG.8
d’être for distinctive modern design interventions and additions. This clause
has also been a lightning rod for proponents of historic restorations such as
Britain’s Prince Charles who claims that “… the Venice Charter — by requiring
us to make distinct the breach between past and present, has likewise often
caused the spirit to fly from old buildings and places.”23 (fig.6)
The adoption of the Venice Charter, together with the establishment of the
many organizations dedicated to global cooperation in the field, marks a ma-
jor point in the international development and consolidation of conservation
policies. Other important developments followed, including the 1981 Burra
Charter of ICOMOS Australia that provided guidelines for cultural heritage
management, the 1983 Appleton Charter of ICOMOS Canada for the Protec-
tion and Enhancement of the Built Environment, the 1994 Nara Document on
Authenticity and the 1998 establishment of DOCOMOMO International (In-
ternational Committee for Documentation and Conservation of Buildings,
Sites and Neighborhoods of the Modern Movement). More recently, the role
of the international organizations has been instrumental in expanding the
scope of heritage; the 1972 UNESCO Convention for the Protection of World
Cultural and Natural Heritage, the 1997 Proclamation of Masterpieces of the
99
FIG.9
Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity, the 2001 UNESCO Universal Dec-
laration on Cultural Diversity and the 2003 UNESCO Convention for the Safe-
guarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage.
In the 21st century, what constitutes heritage encompasses much more than
the monuments of the past. While a proposal to list the Apollo Lunar Landing
on the moon as a UNESCO World Heritage site failed, monuments now in-
clude buildings of the 20th century such as those of Niemeyer, Le Corbusier,
Wright or Utzon. The designation of OMA’s Maison à Bordeaux as Monument
Historique Immeuble classé, or classified building, as part of France’s nation-
al heritage three years after its completion in 1998, however, raised the
question of what we are preserving. Inspired by a commission of the Beijing

government to “investigate and define a form of preservation,” this question
was raised by Rem Koolhaas himself in his 2004 article, “Preservation is
Overtaking Us.”24 He states that the interval between the present and what
we preserve is continually shrinking from 2,000 years in the early 19th cen-
tury to 20 years in the latter half of the 20th century, so that we now “expe-
rience the moment in which preservation is no longer a retroactive activity
but becomes a prospective activity.”25 For the preservation of historic Beijing
OMA proposed a scheme of arbitrary preservation zones in the form of a
barcode-like pattern of stripes: buildings falling within one stripe are pre-
served, and within the next demolished. While Koolhaas is a skillful provo-
cateur, his thoughts beg the consideration of what must or must not, should
or should not be preserved. (figs. 7, 8)
Through Brandi’s theory of restoration, in which restoration is differentiated
for objects as opposed to relevant works of art, restored monuments are by
implication the latter. If indeed, as Rem Koolhaas claims, “preservation is
prospective”, the preservation of “everything” (built) would, applying Brandi’s
theory, render “everything”(built) works of art. Heidegger, in considering
Hegel’s statements regarding the end of art, queries, “is art still an essential
and necessary way in which that truth happens which is decisive for our his-
torical existence, or is this something that art no longer is?”26 The Venice
Charter, by its groundbreaking broadening of monuments as works not only
of art but also of modest and socially useful character, has emancipated the
monument. Adaptive reuse is its instrument in a changed world of shifting
values. (fig. 9)
1 Articles VII & VIII, Project of an International Declaration Concerning the Laws and Customs of War.
Adopted by the Conference of Brussels, August 27, 1874. The American Journal of International Law,
Vol. 1, No. 2, Supplement: Official Documents (April 1907), p. 97. 2 “Convention (II) with Respect to
the Laws and Customs of War on Land and Its Annex: Regulations Concerning the Laws and Customs
of War on Land.” The Hague, 29 July 1899, Articles 55 & 56. https://www.icrc.org/ihl/INTRO/150?Open-
Document (accessed November 23, 2015). 3 International Museum Offices in UNESCO Archives
A to M catalogue, http://atom.archives.unesco.org/international-museums-office-imo (accessed Novem-
ber 23, 1915). 4 Le Corbusier (transl. Anthony Eardley), The Athens Charter (New York, NY: Gross-
man, 1973), accessed by https://modernistarchitecture.wordpress.com/2010/11/03/ciam’s-“the-ath-
ens-charter”-1933/ 5 Ibid., Point 69. 6 Ibid., Point 70. 7 Manuel Martín-Hernández, “Time
and Authenticity,” Future Anterior, Vol. 11, No. 2, Winter 2014, p. 44. 8 http://www.iccrom.org/about/
history/ (accessed June 18, 2015). 9 http://www.icomos.org/en/about-icomos/mission-and-vision/
icomos-mission (accessed June 18, 2015). 10 Cesare Brandi (transl. Gianni Ponti with Alessandra
Melucco Vaccaro), Teoria del restauro (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1963), in Price, Nicholas
Stanely, M. Kirby Talley Jr. and Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro, eds., Historical and Philosophical Issues in
the Conservation of Cultural Heritage (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institution, 1996). 11 Ibid.,
p. 230. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid., p. 231. 14 Jukka Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation
(Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann, 1992), p. 4. 15 Brandi, p. 234. 16 Ibid., p. 341. 17 Interna-
tional Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites, “The Venice Charter — 1964”,
Article 2. 18 Venice Charter, Article 3. 19 Venice Charter, Article 9. 20 Venice Charter, Arti-
cle 5. 21 Venice Charter, Article 9. 22 Ibid. 23 Matthew Hardy, ed., The Venice Charter
Revisited: Modernism, Conservation and Tradition in the 21st Century (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge
Scholars Publishing, 2008), p. xiii. 24 Rem Koolhaas, “Preservation Is Overtaking Us,” in Future
Anterior, Vol. I, No. 2, Fall 2004, p. 1. 25 Ibid. 26 Martin Heidegger (ed. and transl. Julian Young
and Kenneth Haynes), Off the Beaten Track (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 51.
101
Alois Riegl wrote that “[h]istorical monuments are unintentional … in con-
trast to deliberate monuments.”1 Structures of historic significance uninten-
tionally become monuments through preservation. The act of preserving
transforms them from their previous use — as a temple, church, palace — to
the new use of a historic site and, inadvertently, tourist destination. As such,
historic monuments — from full-scale buildings such as the Pantheon in
Rome, Italy, to semi-ruins such as the Parthenon in Athens, Greece, — are
the first instances of adaptive reuse, albeit unintentional.
Centuries before the Athens Charter of 1931 and the Venice Charter that
promulgated the use of monuments for a purpose, the 1560s conversion of
the Baths of Diocletian in Rome to the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli e
dei Martiri was an intentional act of adaptive reuse. As a setting for such
reuse, the 306 AD Roman baths were enormous ruins, missing much of their
structure, including sections of roof and wall. Their architectural characteris-
tics, in scale and grandeur, however, corresponded to those required for a
cathedral and could, with some effort, translate directly to the inherent mag-
nificence Pope Pius IV envisioned for a Renaissance church. Their adaptation
required interventions of many different types. On the exterior, some new
structure was needed to complete the missing elements of roof, walls and
floors, and, on the interior, an entire retrofit to transform a ruined public
theater of daily Roman civic life to a monumental celebration of religion. The
reuse of the structure, despite the efforts required for its adaptation, was a
decision that was not only economically sound but also embraced the con-
tinuity of character recommended in the Athens Charter of 1931. A precedent
ahead of its time, the reuse of the Baths of Diocletian as the adapted church
of Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri is an example of the complex rela-
tionship between an existing structure and its new use. (figs. 1a–b)

FIG.0: Dardanus calidus: the hermit crab.
103
07
[and Guests]
Hosts
FIGS.1a–b: Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei
Martiri as an intervention within the ruins of
the Baths of Diocletian.
The Host Building

Hermit crabs, decapod invertebrates with soft abdomens that require pro-
tection, utilize discarded hard shell objects as fortification and dwelling. The
hermit crab adapts to these imperfect surroundings, seeking larger ones as
they grow and outgrow one shell after the next. In the same manner that a
host is defined as a person who receives other people as guests, these
objects — from empty clam casings to nautilus mollusks — host the hermit
crab for a brief period of time. In the built environent, a host building is a
structure that receives a new use for a defined or undefined period of time.
The reuse of an existing structure for a new purpose requires similar adap-
tation to an imperfect host structure.
Host buildings are wrappers of different kinds, manifested as physical
construction into which new life is introduced. Their ability to sustain a new
use depends on many specific and individual factors: their condition, their
potential to sustain additional load, their spatial fit with the demands of a
new use, their memory, their placement in context. Host buildings can be
classified by their various states of being; each type characterized by simi-
lar existing physical attributes. In turn, these attributes often determine the
type of design intervention required in an application of reuse. The concept
of the host building is not new; rather, it reflects “a clear difference between
architecture and other artistic disciplines. It is not admitted, in principle,
that a pictorial, sculptural, musical, cinematic or literary work of art could
be modified by another author, but it has always been assumed that
buildings can change use or be extended and transformed by other archi-
tects.”2
All host structures are in many ways found objects, whole existing structures
that have lost their relevance and are unused or underused. They share sim-
ilarities with the French objet trouvé, a natural or discarded object “found by

FIG.2: Herzog & de Meuron‘s conversion of the Bankside
Power Station to the Tate Modern, London.
an artist and displayed with no, or minimal, alteration as (or as an element

in) a work of art.”3 Unlike the objet trouvé, host structures in adaptive reuse
are characterized by alteration and transformation in the form of design in-
terventions. For example, the transformation of the Baths of Diocletian to
the Santa Maria degli Angeli or the Bankside Power Station to the Tate Mod-
ern Museum required significant alterations. In both examples, the entire
host structure including its systems was transformed through a change of
use and the necessary architectural interventions to accomplish such trans-
formation. These particular projects are exemplary for the manner in which
the implementation of the new use respects, acknowledges and even en-
hances the character of the host structure while introducing the elements
of the new: in the Renaissance Santa Maria degli Angeli this is apparent in
the grand vaults of the Romans; in the Tate Modern, in the remnants of an
industrial character. (fig. 2)
Each host structure is an entity unto itself. “A thing with defined and inde-
pendent existence,”4 the definition of entity implies an object — large, small,
built, found — that has its own specific character. While there are many ex-
amples of adapted and reused built structures, few transformed projects
demonstrate a respect for the independent existence of their host. In not
105
ES
entity
entity
shell
shell
semi-ruin
semi-ruin
fragmented
INTERVENTIONS
HOST STRUCTURES
fragmented
ES relic
relic
group
group
HOST STRUCTURES
INTERVENTIONS
FIG.3: Host structure types.
doing so, they fall prey to the Frankenstein Syndrome. The purpose of this
book lies in establishing the concept of the host structure as an entity and
investigating the means by which alterations and interventions can be made
in support of its independent existence.
Host Structure Types

The most common host structure is an existing whole and intact building
that is available for conversion to new use. In this instance, design interven-
tions can occur on both the exterior and the interior. Whole building conver-
sions range from renovations to subtractions and additions. Carlo Scarpa’s
Castelvecchio Museum, a conversion of a previously altered medieval castle,

is exemplary of a whole building host that is transformed for new use by
renovation, subtraction and addition. But there are variants of host struc-
tures, many of which do not comprise a whole or intact building. The char-
acter of these variants determines the types of possible interventions.
HOST STRUCTURES
entit
HOST STRUCTURES
Shell: Interior Conversion INTERVENTIONS

shell
INTERVENTIONS
A host structure as only the interior of an entire building differs dramatically
from the whole building host. In this case, adaptive reuse comprises an in- semi-
tervention into a host building that engages with every part of the building
except the building envelope. The host building simply acts as a shell to
INTERVENTIONS
HOST STRUCTURES
fragm
contain new and different activities. This type of host structure is often,
though not exclusively, a heritage building with a designated HOST protected ex-
STRUCTURES
terior. While it does not intervene on the exterior, an interior conversion can relic
engage the structural system within. The Selexyz Dominicanen bookstore in

Maastricht, Netherlands, is an example in which new elementsINTERVENTIONS
INTERVENTIONS and furnish- grou
ings, such as a set of bookshelves, a café and a mezzanine, are simply in-
HOST STRUCTURES
HOST STRUCTURES
INTERVENTIONS
serted into the 13th-century church without impacting the stone envelope or
the internal structure. The MYU Bar in Beirut, Lebanon, is another such ex-
ample located in a war-ravaged building in the now trendy neighborhood of
Gemmayzeh. The design consists of the insertion of a textile structure into
an industrial shell. The textile room negotiates the existing structural sup-
ports and systems while creating a chic atmosphere in a cohabitation of
unfinished, derelict space. In contrast, the Cineteca Matadero in Madrid,
Spain, is a conversion that includes interventions in the internal structure.
The early-20th-century slaughterhouse and livestock market are converted to
a cinema, film studio and archive. New interior elements — such as staircases
or wide-span auditoria — are inserted, requiring some internal structural mod-
ification of the existing historic host. The use of woven irrigational hoses
within a frame of steel tubing as internal structure introduces a new archi-
tectonic vocabulary within the old. With many variations, this type of host
structure serves as a container of new designs that rely primarily on light-
weight and minor structural interventions. (figs. 4, 5a–b, 6a–f)
A variant of the shell host, an interior segment of a whole building is the
most common type of host structure. Occupying a portion of a floor or one
or more floors, this type of host accomodates the interior retrofit, the most
basic type of adaptive reuse. As part of a structure that is a complete and
intact building, the interior retrofit is an insertion of space within one com-
partment of the shell rather than the whole shell. Its spatial limits are both
the footprint of the compartment and the exterior structural system itself.
Office and retail design with their characteristic frequent tenant turnover are
common cases of interior retrofit. The open office plan is an example of a
107
FIG.4: The13th-century Dominican church is a
shell-type host for the Selexyz Dominicanen
bookstore in Maastricht.
FIGS.5a–b: In Paul Kaloustian’s MYU Bar in Beirut, textile

rooms are inserted into the industrial shell.

FIGS.6a–c: Churtichaga + Quadra-Salcedo
Archquitectos’ interventions in the
conversion of a slaughterhouse in Madrid.
109
FIGS.6d–f: Churtichaga + Quadra-Salcedo Arquitectos‘
intervention of woven industrial hoses introduces a new
architectural sensibility to the interior spaces of the
Cineteca Matadero.

INTERVENTIONS
structural grid as determinant of the interior space, as the placement of

columns dictates the confines of possible interventions. Such intervention
does not affect the integrity of the building nor that of the neighboring
spaces. Primary design interventions include spatial manipulation through
non-load-bearing means and the selection of furniture, finishes and equip-
ment (FF&E). Retrofit projects typically include a change of use, for example,
from office to retail or from retail to education. However, retrofit projects
may not entail a change of use at all, as in the rapid turnover of one retail
HOST STRUCTURES
space for another and different type of retail. Such interior renovation none- entit
theless introduces change as new purpose and is, inHOST

that sense, an adaptive
STRUCTURES
reuse intervention. INTERVENTIONS
shell
INTERVENTIONS
Incomplete Host Buildings: semi
The Semi-Ruin Host
INTERVENTIONS
HOST STRUCTURES
fragm
Interior retrofits and conversions assume a complete host building with func-
HOST STRUCTURES
tioning systems, structure and exterior envelope. There are instances, how- relic
ever, of host buildings that are not entirely intact and are missing elements
of either the structure, the infrastructure or both, as is the case with the
INTERVENTIONS
INTERVENTIONS
Baths of Diocletian. Design interventions in the framework of this type in- HOST STRUCTURES
grou
clude not only interior insertions but also additions. The purpose of such
HOST STRUCTURES
INTERVENTIONS
additions are twofold: first, to bring the existing ruined structure back to a
whole state and, second, to extend, if desired, the extent and the capacity
of the host building in its new use. The former case can include sections of
new structure, walls, floors, circulation elements and systems; the nature
of these additions depends on the state of the host structure itself. In the
latter case, the extension is new construction that is limited by the load-bear-
ing capacity of the host to directly sustain additional weight or to act as sup-
port for a new appendage. In either instance, the relationship of the addition(s)
to the existing structure is the determinant of an adaptive reuse practice as
maintenance or as art. At the Moritzburg Museum in Halle, Germany, a con-
version from a semi-ruined roofless castle, the insertion of a new roof and top
floors as a folded strctural platform is an example of both. (figs. 7a–c)
The reuse of “ruins” has made for some of the most interesting adaptive
reuse projects due to the inherent need to consider the issue of time.
Temporality, a crucial element in conservation practice, is a key determinant
of different adaptive reuse strategies. How much or how little does one
acknowledge the passage of time when engaging in adaptive reuse? Con-
versely, how far should adaptive reuse go in terms of expressing its pres-
ence in the language of materials and construction? These are the same
critical questions that Viollet-le-Duc faced and that sparked the theories of
111
FIGS.7a–c: Nieto Sobejano Arquitectos’
insertion of a self-supporting floor and roof
structure into the Moritzburg Castle, Halle.

FIG.8: Sverre Fehn‘s Hamar Museum. FIG.9: Linazasoro & Sánchez Arquitectura’s
Cultural Centre of the Piarists in Lavapiés.
FIGS.10a–b: David Chipperfield‘s Neues

Museum in Berlin.
113
19th-century conservationists, which resulted in the ensuing international
policies such as the Athens and Venice Charters. Three projects with incom-
plete structures as host buildings demonstrate the spectrum of viewpoints
on this particular issue. At the Hedmark Museum, an archaeological site of
Norwegian civilization, Sverre Fehn intervened only to enable the site to
continue in time as a cold, living museum. The few additions are spare, of a
modern vocabulary and used for a simple closure of the envelope or for the
introduction of visitor circulation. They interfere little in the time clock of the
site. At the bombed remains of the Neues Museum in Berlin, Germany,
David Chipperfield instead recreated a past spatial experience in plan through
the reconstruction of a stair in its exact previous location. In its realization,
however, he delineated the passage of time through the introduction of mod-
entity ern materials and details. At the Centro Cultural Escuelas Pías de Lavapiés
in Madrid, Spain, Linazasoro & Sánchez’s new library co-inhabits the ruins of
shell
the ancient Piarist school of San Fernando with a comfortable convergence
of the old and the new. Time, in this instance, moves forward in a newly
combined time zone. (figs. 8, 9, 10a–b)
semi-ruin
Fragmented Host
INTERVENTIONS
HOST STRUCTURES
fragmented
When the host building is characterized by an extent of incompleteness

relic rendering it uninhabitable, adaptive reuse becomes an act of invention. Such
hosts vary and range from a fragment of a building to its infrastructure, fa-
cade or structure. Adding to such fragments to achieve a new state of com-
group
RES
pletion is charged. The addition must be justified by the importance of the

fragment itself and such justification includes historic significance but
also economy. The obsolete crane way in the port of Amsterdam, Nether-
FIG.11: Existing infrastructure as the

structural foundation for OTH Architecten‘s
Kraanspoor Building in Amsterdam.

FIGS.12a–c: An abandoned concrete structure
was the point of departure for Studio Piva’s Le
Terrazze Hotel in Treviso.
lands, and the abandoned concrete skeleton in Carità de Villorba, Italy, are
examples of the latter; their significance lies mainly in their potential as a
resource for building structure. As structure constitutes a significant percent-
age of a construction budget, their reuse as structural support respectively
for an office and archive complex and a four-star hotel, is based on sound
economics. Despite taking on only structural roles, the hosts, in these proj-
ects, inspire the design vocabulary of the interventions. (figs. 11, 12a–c)
The reuse of historic fragments, on the other hand, translates to a different
level of complexity. The significance of such remains dictates an adaptive
strategy that can just as easily be an architecture inspired by history as one
that falls prey to false historicism. The recognition and acknowledgment of
history in the manifestation of a building’s new design are fundamental to a
successful reuse of fragments. In the transformation of the earthquake-ruined
Chiesa Madre in Salemi, Italy, to a new urban plaza, the additions of a new
115
FIG.13: The ruins of the Chiesa Madre are reborn
as Salemi’s urban plaza in the project by Álvaro
Siza and Roberto Collovà.
floor, circulation, structural improvements and new lighting are all dictated
by the consideration of the 17th-century church. Completed with unobtrusive
means and finishes, some of which utilize original materials and 17th-century
methods, the additions focus on the architectural ruin itself. Its new use as
an open piazza, in which young lovers find privacy in the remains of the
church apse and skateboarders perform flips across the almost indiscernible
outline of the past nave, is simply a continuation in the history of this small
Sicilian hillside town. (fig. 13)
The preservation of historic facades as a fragment differs from facadism, a
practice that retains and exploits an historic facade for its referential value

FIGS.14a–b: Insertion of a new atrium into the
heritage facades at the Bibliotheca Hertziana,
Rome, by Juan Navarro Baldeweg.
FIG.15: Facadism as unfettered development:

the Bucharest Novotel with the exterior of the
old Romanian National Theatre.
117
rather than the heritage value of its exterior. An example of adaptive reuse
entity with a focus on heritage value can be found in the heart of Rome’s center
city, where facades are strictly under historic preservation. The new building
for the Biblioteca Hertziana, designed by Juan Navarro Baldeweg, provides
shell
a distinctive insertion of a volume within the historic fronts that allows the
1912 palazzo to go forward in time with not only a new program of use but
semi-ruin a fresh interpretation of the ancient courtyard typology. Facadism, by con-
trast, is a practice that produces a new building behind a facade and lacks
any correspondence of time and place. (figs. 14a–b, 15)
INTERVENTIONS
HOST STRUCTURES
fragmented
relic Relic Host

Sometimes a host structure is simply a relic of the past. It is not transformed
RES
group but rather serves as the catalyst for new construction. Its significance is in
the recall of a memory: an event, history, a period of time. An example of
this is the tiny fragment of wall and the statue of the Madonna of the St.
Kolumba parish church that inspired the architecture of the new Kolumba
Museum in Cologne, Germany. The spirit of these relics pervades the detail-
ing of the new building, guiding a spatial experience that very much recalls
the old one. Another example is the Long Museum West Bund in Shanghai,
China, where a 110-meter-long coal hopper unloading bridge from the city’s
FIG.16: The new grey brick unites the fragments of the St. Kolumba
Church in the new Kolumba Museum, Cologne, by Peter Zumthor.

HOST STRUCTURES
INTERVENTIONS
FIG.17: The Long Museum in Shanghai is built around

a 1950s coal hopper unloading bridge. HOST STRUCTURES
entit
HOST STRUCTURES
INTERVENTIONS
shel
INTERVENTIONS
industrial past forms the center of a new museum of contemporary art.
semi
Without function or even direct connection to the museum’s exhibit spaces,
the primary purpose of the industrial remnant is to recall the memory of this
site as a wharf for the transportation of coal. Its form, however, inspired the
INTERVENTIONS
HOST STRUCTURES
fragm
use of concrete cantilevered vault umbrella structures in the design of the

museum itself. (figs. 16, 17) HOST STRUCTURES
relic
Group Hosts INTERVENTIONS INTERVENTIONS

HOST STRUCTURES
grou
HOST STRUCTURES
INTERVENTIONS
A host structure is not necessarily bound to a single building. The reuse of

more than one building as host engenders a grand scale of adaptive reuse.
Group hosts are differentiated by whether these buildings are elements that
comprise part of one single complex or individual elements in an overall
urban environment. As a single complex, the aim will most often be the
preservation of a historic event, community or moment in time, such as the
heritage sites protected by UNESCO. The conversion of the Zollverein coal
mine and coking plant in Essen, Germany, is such a case where the preser-
vation of the history of coal mining has resulted in the complex’s conversion
to a museum showcasing this way of life. The adaptive strategy for these
host structures is to produce enhanced versions of their original selves, as
exhibits. (fig. 18)
119
FIG.18: At the Zollverein coal mine, the different elements
of the coal mining process are unified through adaptive reuse
as an industrial monument and cultural center.
FIGS.19a–b: The different rooflines of the Royal Palace in

Dresden are unified under the addition of one roof in the
conversion to a museum by Peter Kulka.

Utilizing more than one building as a host structure has many challenges: the
condition of the individual structures, the physical relationship between
them, their individual place in history and their collective relationships. The
existence of such conditions requires a unifying adaptive strategy that pro-
vides the various structures with a new and singular identity. Given the
multiple factors that may exist, this type of host, even more than the others,
requires consideration on a case-by-case basis. For example, the conversion
of parts of the Royal Palace in Dresden, Germany, to a single museum com-
plex is relatively less complicated due to the fact that the parts are all seg-
ments of the palace, albeit with different rooflines. The unifying strategy here
was the addition of a single new roof to join the buildings as one. In the case
of the Pixel Hotel in Linz, Austria, the different hosts were highly individual
and unrelated spaces within the city. With vastly divergent characteristics
from one to the next they included a part of a barge, the top of a crane, a
passageway in a medieval corridor and a section of an art gallery. The adap-
tive reuse of these disparate spaces as one single project was not achieved
by a physical strategy, as in Dresden, but by an abstract one. In a novel
model of hospitality, the many different spaces spread across the city have
become rooms unified by a concept in which the entire city serves as the
hotel. (figs. 19a–b)
With the many opportunities to reuse and adapt different types of host struc-
tures, adaptive reuse practice is unique for “for its requirement of the taking
of a stand in the transformation of architecture in space and time. The reha-
bilitation of works of the past forces us to read a building as the sum of
different juxtaposed texts, in which the new intervention is another chapter
of its long history.“5
1 Alois Riegl, “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Development,” in Nicholas Price,
M. Kirby Talley, Jr., and Alessandra Melucco Vacarro, eds., Historical and Philosophical Issues in the
Conservation of Cultural Heritage (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 1996), p. 72. 2 Luis
Sacristán Murga, “Between Memory and Invention: An Interview with Nieto Sobejano Arquitectos,” in
Int|AR Journal of Interventions & Adaptive Reuse, Vol. 06, 2015, p. 98. 3 Ian Chilvers, The Oxford
Dictionary of Art and Artists (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 448. 4 Oxford Dictionaries,
http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/entity (accessed July 14, 2016).
5 Sacristán Murga, p. 98.
121
We are defined by our genes — the basic units of heredity. Made up of DNA,
genes are “instructions” inherited from our parents. While most genes are
the same in all people, a few of them differ slightly between persons. These
small differences in the varying forms of the same gene contribute to the
individuality of each person.1 The architectural elements of structure, circu-
lation, systems and facade are the basic units that identify all buildings — their
bones, blood vessels, organs and skin. As slight genetic differences differ-
entiate persons from one to the next, differences in these architectural ele-
ments differentiate one building from the next. Eyes are differentiated by
color, shape, size and even expression as windows are differentiated by
shape, size, detail, style of frame and type of glass.
The human body, like the host structure, is often a site for rehabilitation and
intervention. With new technologies in medicine, such interventions include
prosthesis, organ transplant, skin graft and joint replacements, which each
have their counterpart in adaptive reuse interventions such as addition, sys-
tems replacement, new facade and transfer beams. The success of opera-
tions such as organ replacement and prosthetic placement are dependent
on a perfect match of the slight differences in defining characteristics such
as blood type, size of skeleton and type of skin. Even a complete correspon-
dence is no guarantee of success. Successful adaptive reuse in the form of
renovations, extensions and additions similarly requires a correspondence
between the new intervention and the defining and characteristic elements
of the host structure.
In Shelley’s novel Frankenstein: Or the Modern Prometheus, a monster re-
sulted from an assemblage of random body parts. As a derivation of the
Latin word monstrum, “monster“ has the additional connotation of “portent,”
that Cicero defines as “a sign, usually some disruption of the natural order,

FIG.0: Schematic representation of DNA section.
08
DNA
Considering
FIG.1: No one would dream of
adding to the work of Leonardo
da Vinci.
sent by the gods to show that they were displeased.”2 In this sense, Franken
stein in an adaptive reuse analogy equates to an intervention strategy that
disrupts the natural order of the host structure. There is no expectation that
one should paint on the Mona Lisa, add a splatter to a Jackson Pollock or an
appendage to a Noguchi. Yet we transform and add to buildings from non-
descript warehouses to heritage such as Notre-Dame de Paris. If interven-
tion to existing buildings distinguishes architecture from other arts, what in
adaptive reuse constitutes a successful intervention within a building’s nat-
ural order that is worthy of the arts? (fig. 1)
Rehabilitation, refurbishment and renovation (without a change of purpose)
typically modernize an old structure. Varying in degrees of change, these
operations take place within an existing confine and update a pre-established
order. They are distinguished from adaptive reuse as interventions that as-
sume and maintain the existing use of the building. Adaptive reuse, defined
as the renovation and reuse of pre-existing structures for new purposes,
requires the introduction of the new within the established order of the
existing.
As a term of the 1970s, adaptive reuse not only references a time in which the
scarcity of resources emerged as a global issue but also a turbulent one of
change which witnessed the manifestation of many idealistic protests of the
previous decade. In the realm of urban planning, it was a time of opposition
to urban renewal programs introduced in the 1940s and 1950s that autho-
rized “loans and grants to localities to assist locally initiated, locally planned
and locally managed slum clearance and urban redevelopment undertak-
ings”3 “to aid in the … elimination and prevention of slums.”4 While Jane

FIG.2: The Clock Tower Gallery on the
top of the New York Life Insurance Company
Building by McKim, Mead & White.
Jacobs’ seminal 1961 Death and Life of Great American Cities voiced oppo-
sition to this type of urban renewal, which often affected the most disadvan-
taged, it was not until the early 1970s that this disaffection became action.
In particular, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD)
enacted the Community Development Block Grant in 1974, which allocated
funds for the rehabilitation of housing and commercial buildings. In this
context, one of HUD’s longest-running programs, large cities such as New
York pursued various initiatives, including one to “Reuse Vacant Space in
Existing Buildings.”5 Art entrepreneur Alanna Heiss pioneered adaptive reuse
practice as we know it today in her efforts to rehabilitate “derelict warehous-
es and unused city-owned property in an environment reeling from blight
and decay, creating nonprofit art spaces that blurred the lines between stu-
dio, gallery, theater and community center.”6 These initial instances of reuse
included the 1972 founding of an artists’ gallery in the clock tower of the
19th-century McKim, Mead & White New York Life Insurance Company Build-
ing in Lower Manhattan (that was subsequently designated a historic land-
mark in the 1980s), the reuse of a condemned pier beneath the Brooklyn
125
FIGS.3a–b: The abandoned Queens Public
School No.1 is now MoMA PS1, one of
the oldest contemporary art institutions in
the USA.
Bridge and the reuse of the abandoned First Ward School or Queens Public
School No. 1 (PS1) in Long Island City as the Institute for Art and Urban Re-
sources, Inc., an organization devoted to organizing exhibitions in underuti-
lized and abandoned spaces across New York City. As part of Heiss’ 1971
Brooklyn Bridge Event, artists found “inspiration (and materials) from the
gritty Manhattan waterfront … and constructed their works over a period of
three days.”7 Rooms, the first exhibit at PS1, was an invitation to 78 artists “to
transform the building’s unique spaces into site-specific art.”8 This included
the work of artists such as Richard Tuttle, Sol LeWitt and Gordon Matta-Clark.
Matta-Clark’s installation consisted of cuts in the floor at the threshold of
three doors, one on each of three floors, consecutively aligned one on top
of the next. The cuts of the size and shape of a door created an illusion of
door openings in an unexpected location. The intended confusion created by
thresholds that led to openings in the floor is one that is dependent on its
location. Such an installation is an instance of making informed responses
to site-specific conditions, one that takes into account the building’s DNA. It
is a forerunner of the kind of informed intervention required in a significant
adaptive reuse intervention to a host structure. (figs. 2, 3a–b)
Actions of Interventions
In adaptive reuse, design interventions as responses to the unique DNA of
structures can best be understood as actions. These actions are operations
that create a new user experience through very different types of interface
with the host. Harkening back to the early site-specific art installations of the
1970s, these actions can be categorized as passive, performative and refer-
ential. These concepts are best illustrated in their purest form by projects of
art and art installations in site-specific locations.

FIG.4: Rachel Whiteread, Ghost, 1990,
Plaster on steel frame, 106 × 140 × 125 in
(269 × 35 × 318 cm).
The Passive
Rachel Whiteread’s Ghost is a casting of the interior of a Victorian parlor in an
abandoned building in North London. Part of an early body of work that in
cluded plaster castings of domestic objects, Ghost was a casting attempted
at a much larger scale. The cast of each wall of the parlor resulted in a set of
new plaster walls made of the negative space of each original wall. Assem-
bled on a steel frame as a box, these four cast walls provide a new experi-
ence of the old parlor; one in which the user can only experience through
the new. Without impingement upon the existing space, the new “object of
walls“ allows the spectator to create a different relationship with the past.
Ghost is a metaphor for the interventions within host buildings that do not
act upon the integrity of the structure. Rather, they transform the host struc-
ture to provide a novel experience while leaving the existing relatively un-
changed. (fig. 4)
The interior retrofit as discussed in the chapter Hosts [and Guests] is a prime
example of this type of action. Projects of tenant fit-up such as the Apple
Store comprise the application of an interior template to building shells in
ubiquitous locations. The iconic white interior of a sea of minimal tables
displaying varying Apple devices is uniquely recognizable in shopping malls
127
FIGS.5a–b: The Apple Store, identifiable
anywhere in the world, is exemplary of
the interior retrofit.
around the world as well as in site-specific locations. Implementation of this

standard requires a layout of FF&E within the structural grid of the host. The
characteristic features of the host — with the exception of the structural sys-
tem itself — have been suppressed in the service of the production of the
new image. Most interior renovations of this type that take place within
passive existing building shells similarly require little structural intervention,
thereby leaving the “DNA” of the host intact. The retrofit is a temporary
experience that is continuously reinvented within the brief and numerous
cycles of the host’s life. (figs. 5a–b)

FIG.6: Splitting, Gordon Matta-Clark, 1974.
The Performative
The host for Gordon Matta-Clark’s project Splitting, like Whiteread’s Ghost,
is an abandoned domestic structure. Awaiting demolition, 322 Humphrey
Street in Englewood, New Jersey, USA, was an ordinary 1930s two-story
home with front and back porches. Matta-Clark’s now iconic actions with a
chainsaw, in which he cuts open the side of the balloon frame structure from
top to bottom, revealing it from inside to outside, offer numerous interpre-
tations. From a historic point of view, Splitting is a social commentary on
conformity and the failure of architecture (and housing) in the era of post-war
reintegration in America. As a work of sited art, Splitting symbolically sev-
ered the idea of home. As a film, Splitting documents the spectacle of a man
physically engaged with a construction tool, a performance in which both
Matta-Clark and the house perform. The house undergoes “a brief change
of state executed with care and precision, which gives it a new life … before
the final destruction.”9 This “brief change of state” aptly applies also to those
adaptive reuse interventions that require the host to transform; from an in-
complete state to a whole one, from one programmatic use to a different
one, from one type to another. Unlike the passive action, in which the char-
acter of the host is suppressed, the performative one requires participation
of the existing structure. A term often embedded today in the culture of
digital technology, the application of “the performative” in adaptive reuse
may be understood as an analog interpretation: “Form [in performative ac-
tion] is animated, acting and interacting with the surrounding object/forms
129
FIG.7: The Yellow House in Flims by Valerio
Olgiati is white in its new life.
and the human subject, creating possibilities for the emergence of new
realities.”10 (fig. 6)
Interventions that require a performative response of the host mandate a
reckoning with its DNA. As host structures are entrenched in the principles
of their own architecture — structural elements, material properties, spatial
sequences, organizing lines, geometries, proportions — the reuse of an ex-
isting structure means to alter this architecture and modify its principles.
From renovation to a new use to extension and addition, these modifications
are visible signals of change through a physical expression of such intent.
Viollet-le-Duc’s decision to restore to a state that may never have existed
was, in part, a response to the dilemma presented by the existence of sev-
eral stylistically unique renovations and extensions within one existing struc-
ture. The Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris, for example, built between the
12th and 14th centuries, included many differing aspects of the developing
Gothic style. This issue at the center of many critical discussions in the 19th
century — which style to restore to — is at the heart of every extension and
addition project today. How does a new form emerge from within the exist-
ing structure?
These issues are apparent in, for example, the extensions of facades. The
whitewashing of the Yellow House in Flims, Switzerland, designed by Valerio
Olgiati, intentionally signals the progression of time with the change of the
iconic color of this alpine hut. The addition of a new glass skin over the
existing 1908 masonry facade at the 185 Post Building in San Francisco,
California, USA, instead further expands the role of the facade. The creation
of a double wall system enabled the outmoded host building to meet ener-
gy efficiency requirements through natural light, thermal and acoustic

FIG.8: The 1908 facade is FIG.9: David Chipperfield‘s stone facade at
preserved in 185 Post Street Joachimstrasse 11 in Berlin responds to its
Building in San Francisco, CA. neighboring context.
insulation, while establishing its identity as caretaker of the historic facade

below. At the Chipperfield office in Berlin, Germany, the infill designed by
the architect completes anew the deep plot of the site of an 1895 piano
factory, severely bombed in the war. The new facade of the street block
completes the street front with proportions and materials responding to the
proportions of its neighbors while striking “a balance between re-establish-
ing the typical pre-war courtyard structure, and a post-war configuration of
solitary buildings.”11 Each intervention strategy, though uniquely different,
reanimates its host through an acknowledgment of some part of its defining
principles. (figs. 7, 8, 9)
While the first debates between the proponents of restoration and conser-
vation are still relevant in this matter of intervention strategy, the architec-
tural pluralism of the present day has expanded and further muddied the
limit of possibilities. Extension “in the style of” recalls the same objections
as “in the style of”-type restorations in the 19th century. The lack of truth in
replicating a style of another time is universal. When designing 300 years
later, how does one work within the regulating lines of an 18th-century facade?
Within a facade in which the apertures were previously dictated by the con-
fines of the then structural capabilities, how does one add openings today?
What are the responsibilities for extending and adding when present-day
structural capabilities allow the addition of a physical mass exceeding that
of the host? How much of a host structure can be removed or obscured
before its identity is entirely obfuscated? In approaching these questions,
two critical issues face the architects and designers of the extensions and
additions of adaptive reuse: first, the need to take a stance on time within
a host structure already characterized by a form, material and organizational
131
identity and, second, with already many authors within a single work, the
weight of one’s authorship on the host.
The Referential
Wounds and cracks have long been a focus of the work of Alberto Burri.
These themes of trauma witnessed during the Second World War have been
explored in his paintings in numerous media from paint to burlap to tar and
Celotex. They are present in his life-size installation Cretto di Burri in Gibel-
lina, Sicily, Italy. Upon the site of the 1968 Belice earthquake, in which the
town of Gibellina was destroyed, Burri erected a series of concrete forms,
the approximate height of a human being, that resemble a three-dimension-
al version of one of his canvases, spread onto a sloping countryside. Cracks
are present in this labyrinth of concrete as “streets” that reference and
memorialize the layout of the felled town. (fig. 10)
Cretto importantly demonstrates the relationship of the artist’s concept to
the confines of a specific site. In adaptive reuse this relationship is critical
for an intervention that in its engagement with the structure is respectful of
the host DNA. Herzog & de Meuron’s project at the Park Avenue Armory in
New York City, New York, USA, demonstrates such a relationship. Their work
within the landmark building comprised the delayering and revealing of marks
on the walls and surfaces within the many historic rooms. But it also included
very subtle interventions in the form of gilt overprinting of pattern over
pattern — their 21st-century interpretation superimposed upon the existing
FIG.10: Cretto di Burri, Alberto Burri, 1984.

FIGS.11a–b: Herzog & de Meuron‘s
delayering at the Park Avenue
Armory, New York City, NY (left, new;
right, original).
layers. In this, their “microscopic” intervention, Jacques Herzog stated that

“[w]e are treating the Armory like a monument, preserving it for the future
and above all reinventing it.”12 (figs. 11a–b)
At a different scale, the discovery of 1st-century Roman ruins together with
Celtiberian 2nd-century BC ruins in the site of a proposed parking lot in Daroca,
Spain, inspired the design of an entire civic building focused on the presence
of such history. The design is connected in an intricate sectional scheme
referencing and revealing the layers of the city’s visible histories. A series of
glimpses lead the visitor through the building and to the ruins, including tiny
pinprick openings in the surface of the plaza above, points that reference the
exact placement of the ruins several layers below. (figs. 12a–d)
In contrast to the passive and performative actions, the referential action re-
animates the host structure through design strategies and interventions that
are co-dependent with its past, incorporating what was with what is.
Many factors make for a rich relationship between host structure and its new
use, enabling a host structure’s DNA to be perpetuated into the future. A
disregard for these factors results in the end of the line, so to speak. An
initial assessment of specific characteristics of the host must be a starting
point of every adaptive reuse strategy. By examining such characteristics
and acknowledging their presence in the host structures, we gain an under-
standing of how to alter its prevailing framework. As “[a]rt is the child of
nature … in whom we trace [t]he features of the mothers face…,”13 so in an
adaptive reuse project one should be able to trace the features of its host.
133
FIGS.12a–d: Sergio Sebastián Franco‘s
Archaeological Space in Daroca is an
intervention that connects the DNA of
thousands of years.
1 http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/handbook/ 2 Cicero (transl. David Wardle), Cicero: On Divination (De Divi-

natione) Book 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 102. 3 Summary of Provisions of the
National Housing Act of 1949, Committee on Banking and Currency U.S. Senate, U.S. Government
Printing Office, Washington, DC, 1949, p. 1. 4 Public Law 560 — August 2, 1954, U.S. Government
Printing Office, Washington, DC, 1954, p. 1. 5 Economic Recover, New York City’s program for
1977–81, U.S. Department of Commerce NOAA, p. 48. 6 “Introduction,” The Artist in Place: The First
10 Years of MoMA PS 1, https://www.moma.org/interactives/exhibitions/2012/artistinplace/ 7 Alana
Miller, “From the Records of MoMA PS1: The 40th Anniversary of The Brooklyn Bridge Event,” Collection
& Exhibitions, Library and Archives, MOMA PS1, June 27, 2011. http://www.moma.org/explore/inside_
out/2011/06/27/from-the-records-of-moma-ps1-the-40th-anniversary-of-the-brooklyn-bridge-event (ac-
cessed December 7, 2015). 8 MoMA PS1 Profile, http://momaps1.org/about/ (accessed December
7, 2015). 9 Imogen Racz, “Gordon Matta-Clark, Splitting and the Unmade House,” The IB Tauris Blog,
January 26, 2015 (accessed December 7, 2015). 10 Yasha Grobman and Eran Neuman, “Performal-
ism: a manifesto for architectural performance,” in Grobman & Neuman, eds., Performalism: Form and
Performance in Digital Architecture, (Routledge, 2011), p. 4. 11 http://www.davidchipperfield.co.uk/
project/joachimstrasse (accessed December 7, 2015). 12 Gerhard Mack, ed., Herzog & de Meuron,
Transforming Park Avenue Armory New York (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2014), p. 314. 13 Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow, Kéramos & Other Poems (Cambridge, UK: Houghton, Osgood & Company, 1878), p. 23.
135
Science claims genetic inheritance as a main determinant of who we are.
Psychology, sociology, philosophy refute this claim in favor of the influence
of environment. Disputing the merits of innate qualities to those of experi-
ence, the nature vs. nurture debate is an ongoing one, with truth on both
sides. In the chapter Considering DNA , we discussed the DNA of host build-
ings as possible determinants of intervention strategies for new use. What
of the tabula rasa of John Locke and the “EXPERIENCE. [I]n that all our
knowledge is founded; and from that it ultimately derives itself”?1 Many
structures and spaces are renovated or reused in succession, as differing
building programs, each independent of the previous. Does the experience
derived from the use of a structure impress itself upon the structure, affect-
ing the implementation of a different future use?
By definition, adaptive reuse is characterized by the DNA of an existing host
structure and, with it, the physical evidence of a previous user or users. This
physical evidence is found in renovation, refurbishment or extension with
the demolition of any part of the existing structure. The removal of even a
simple partition leaves a telltale trace on both the ground and the ceiling: a
scar defined by the depth and thickness of framing members and finishes.
In this sense, the host structure has been analogized to a palimpsest, in
which ghost traces of writing are faintly perceptible within an old manuscript
scraped for reuse. Traces of war, in the form of bullet marks and destroyed
patches of plaster, form the basis of David Chipperfield’s intervention strat-
egy in the rebuilding of the Neues Museum in Berlin, Germany, from a burnt
post-war semi-ruin. Preserving these scars of war through the meticulous
salvage of bullet holes and bits of destroyed brick and plaster, woven with
insertions of new large-format prefabricated concrete, is a “multidisciplinary
interaction between repairing, conserving, restoring and recreating.”2 This
136 Ghosts 09
FIG.0: The Scream, Edvard Munch, 1893, National Gallery, Oslo. (manipulated detail)
09
Ghosts
FIGS.1a–b: David Chipperfield‘s
intervention inside the Neues
Museum, Berlin, embraces the
traces of war.
juxtaposition, in which “the contemporary reflects the lost but without im-
itating it”3 allows the past to co-inhabit the space of the present, without
erasure or recriminations. (figs. 1a–b)
Programs of use with function-specific spaces also leave traces. Character-
ized by the particularity of a ritual of use, the spaces within any given pro-
gram are interrelated to form a unified whole. An example is the program of
a Christian church, one that culminates at the altar in a transformation of
bread and wine to the body and blood of Christ. The architecture corrobo-
rates this ceremony with a choreographed sequence of procession, from
west to east and from nave to transept, concluding at the altar and the radi-
ating chapels. The main altar of the church, the site of transubstantiation,
and the radiating chapels, the place for the miraculous relics of martyrs, are
imbued with the liturgical implications of the Christian faith. This highly
charged program of use, with its centuries-old significance, asserts its pres-
ence through time, space, and new use. The complexity of introducing a new
purpose to such a space requires a synthesis of the significance of a previous
use with the needs of a new program. In the conversion of the 13th-century
Dominican church in Maastricht, Netherlands, to the Selexyz bookstore, the
place of the altar is programmed as a wine bar, referencing in a boldly ironic
move the transubstantiation of wine. The conversion of an Italian church to a
mechanic’s garage places the pneumatic hoisting jack at the site of the altar,
where the transformed host is lifted to the heavens at the consecration. These
instances re-appropriate meaning within a highly charged space. Such strat-
egies are overlays that connect to previous traces of ”writing” within a pa-
limpsest. They acknowledge a past significance and engage it in a new context.
138 Ghosts 09
FIGS.2a–b: The Selexyz Bookstore wine bar, located
at the altar of the former Dominican church.
This reuse approach perpetuates the spirit of the host, allowing for a continu-
um through time. In contrast, the insertion of many new levels within the vast
height of a sacred space in a church-to-condominium conversion denies the
previous existence by obliterating the charged space itself. (figs. 2a–b)
The traces of a past existence as DNA within a host structure are tangible
and therefore comprehensible. They are ghosts that make themselves
known as faint outlines of the past. They can serve as parameters for the
formulation of new interventions. What, however, of the intangible traces of
experience within an existing space? Do structures absorb and retain the
memory of events that take place within them? Do memories assert them-
selves when subject to a new context? Are these traces of a different nature
that can inform the strategies of reuse?
Structures subjected to difficult experiences result in a unique form of after-
life, one in which the host dictates the parameters of future use. These too
are ghosts — apparitions of the dead “believed to appear or become manifest
to the living.”4 Offering a different immortality, ghosts roam for various rea-
sons; some are stranded in time and others haunt. Popular culture and even
religious practices address those spirits who wander as a result of devastat-
ing experience, with exorcisms and other attempts to lay such ghosts to rest.
Buildings are also subject to destructive and devastating experiences, as
prisons, torture chambers, concentration camps, hangman’s scaffold. Do
such deeds transcend time and materials? Can such structures be gainfully
reused? How do these buildings haunt?
The conversions of two penitentiaries, each with its own lengthy history,
demonstrate very different specters within one building typology. Incarcer-
139
140 Ghosts 09
FIGS.3a–e: The Charles Street Jail
and the Liberty Hotel in Boston, MA,
are connected in time through a
transformation based on spatial
typology and use.
141
ation is a product of a society and the penal code its social and legal system.
With societies differing from one to the next, modes of incarceration reflect
these differences. In Boston, Massachusetts, USA, the Charles Street Jail is
part of a long history of American penal reform. Built in the era of prison de-
velopment, the jail is most recognized as an example of the “Boston Granite
Style.” The octagonal building complex houses an atrium, catwalks, and jail
cells in the centralized prison design style of the time. The new Liberty Hotel
repurposes the historic 19th-century Romanesque Revival structure, exploit-
ing its architectural characteristics with deliberation. Once the omniscient
central space of a panopticon-like system of jail cells, the 27.4-meter-high
atrium is reused as the heart of the hotel and the connective center of its
many rooms. Clink, the hotel bar, draws upon the aesthetic of jail cell doors,
using these features to place its users in the cells of its infamous past oc-
cupants. With spatial parallels drawn, at times, through functional similarities
and, at times, through wit, the Charles Street Jail is a benevolent spirit that
permits the experience of incarceration to be repackaged as a tool of com-
merce. As part of a penal system but without untoward incidents, the jail’s
conversion to luxury accommodations is an interesting example in which the
physical remains of incarceration are treated as architectural typology rather
than as reminders of a difficult past. (figs. 3a–e)
In contrast is the Carandiru Penitentiary of São Paulo, Brazil, the largest in
South America. Built to meet the 1890 criminal code, the prison was the site
of riot resulting from poor conditions and culminating in a police massacre
of 111 prisoners. Parts of the prison complex were demolished to erase the
site of what is noted in Brazil’s history as one of the worst violations of hu-
man rights. The remaining buildings were converted for new use as pro-
grams that gave back to the community: a technical school, a library and a
youth park. Elements of the penitentiary — certain walls, the guard tow-
er — remain, scattered within the park and used as canvas for graffiti art.
Unlike its counterpart in Boston, the Carandiru Penitentiary conversion was
necessitated by the need to appease the ghosts of the massacre.
Structures that witness such acts of inhumanity are limited in reuse potential
by their experience. Auschwitz or S-21, the jail cells of Pol Pot in Cambodia,
for example, hold innumerable and different ghosts that haunt. Konzentra-
tionslager Auschwitz became the largest of the death camps of the Second
World War in Germany and has since “become a symbol of terror, genocide
and the Holocaust.”5 Once a school built to the principles of Le Corbusier,
the Chao Ponhea Yat High School was converted to S-21 (Security Prison 21),
the torture chambers of the Khmer Rhouge, witnessing unspeakable acts.
Today the remaining structures of S-21 and Auschwitz, saturated with the
memories of brutality, are structures without the reprieve of reuse. They can
only serve as witness. As living but immobilized history, they unwittingly
become a place of remembrance. The death camps of Auschwitz, now
142 Ghosts 09
FIGS.4a–b: S-21, transformed from a school to a place of
torture, can serve only one possible use today: a place of
witness and remembrance.
uschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum in Poland, and S-21, now the

A
Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum in Cambodia, are a unique category of Alois
Riegl’s unintentional monuments. As memorials they serve a redemptive
role. (figs. 4a–b, 5a–b)
Until recently, this redemption equated to a convertibility limited to remem-
brance and memorial. In 2015, however, the humanitarian crisis created by
the Syrian refugee exodus to Europe brought about a pioneering reuse of
similar structures for a different program. Prompted by the housing shortage,
the garden buildings of Dachau were converted to refugee accommodations,
breaking a long and unspoken taboo. This reuse of buildings of the former
concentration camp was controversial, tempered only by the plight of those
143
FIGS.5a–b: Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial
and Museum.
without shelter. In this sense, the need to alleviate even a small part of a
human tragedy has helped to expand the role of an otherwise inconvertible
typology. (fig. 6)
Ghosts of more distant trauma offer redemption of a different kind. The city
of Nantes, France, was France’s principal slave port in the 18th century,
with more than 1400 voyages to Africa.6 The Memorial to the Abolition of
Slavery repurposes the understructure of the Quai de la Fosse, the wharves
from which these ships sailed. A 7,000-square-meter pathway inserted be-
low the wharves together with 2,000 glass plaques recall details of the
slave trade in unbiased light. This information, from the names of the trading
posts to personal accounts to abolitionist texts, brings a new awareness
of this difficult past while recreating below ground the confinement of
144 Ghosts 09
FIG.6: Is there another possible use for the
grounds or buildings of a former concentra-
tion camp?
FIGS.7a–b: The transformation of the former

slave ship port in Nantes to the Memorial to the
Abolition of Slavery.
the ships. This project of adaptive reuse offers another form of redemption,
in which new use serves a didactic role as well as that of remembrance.
(figs. 7a–b)
Another example lies in the many ghosts conjured by the site of the Berlin
Palace in Germany. Once the imperial residence of the last kings of Prussia,
the palace lost its official purpose with the abdication of the monarchy in
1918. The fate of the structure perhaps would have been that of any other
European imperial palace, as a national symbol, had it not been partially
destroyed in the bombing of Berlin. Its significance as a symbol of Prussian
rule in divided East Berlin, under the protection of the Soviets, eliminated
the possibility of reconstruction, despite resistance from the West: it was
razed in 1950 and 25 years later replaced by the Palace of the Republic, the
145
FIGS.8a–b: The site of the Berlin City Palace
once accommodated the seat of the Prussian
kings and subsequently the Communists
Palace of the Republic under the GDR.
seat of Parliament for the German Democratic Republic. With the reunifica-
tion, the existence of the Palace of the Republic was now questioned as a
remnant of Soviet rule. Like the Berlin Palace before it, the existence of the
Palace of the Republic had become a reminder of a different past, maybe
posing a symbolic threat to the newly reunified government. A ghost to be
eliminated, the discovery of asbestos within the building justified its demo-
lition amidst controversial and polarizing discussions on its significance in
the new Berlin. The future Humboldt Forum will rise upon the footprint of
the imperial residence, replicating three facades of the old palace. Without
the need for a royal residence or a seat of government, it will instead serve
the public as a cultural space. A modern facade design on the river’s edge
and functions within the palace courtyard are symbols of change stamped
upon the old, as harbingers of a new phase of history. The ongoing tale of
this site and the roles of the different ghosts it conjures demonstrate the
complexity of experience and the longevity of its effect on a host structure
over time. (figs. 8a–b)
According to the 20th-century philosopher Henri Bergson, pure memory or
remembrance is in the past and separated from the body. In the example of
the Berlin Palace, memories remain even when the matter has been de-
stroyed, with potential repercussions reverberating into the future. The 9/11
Memorial in New York City, New York, USA, to remember and honor the
victims of the 2001 terrorist attack, focuses on the preservation of absence.
The memorial comprises a field of trees and two large pools set within the
146 Ghosts 09
FIG.9: The 9/11 Memorial in New York City, NY, by Michael
Arad, in accordance with the master plan of Daniel
Libeskind.
sunken footprint of the Twin Towers that were destroyed in the attack. These
voids are surrounded by parapets, engraved with the names of the victims
and serving as barriers at the water’s edge. Named “Reflecting Absence,”
the memorial mediates between the present and what was lost. Homage to
the invisible, this gesture demonstrates the power of ghosts that haunt from
a distance. (fig. 9)
In adaptive reuse, where every project is premised on a pre-existing set of
circumstances, the effect of past experience on new interventions of reuse
is equally viable as physical traces of the past. Ghosts that haunt are oppor-
tunities for a particular type of architectural intervention, although these
occasions, like the corporeal specters, are few and far between. Ghostly
traces, however, exist in every project large and small. It is in the consider-
ation of both types of ghosts that meaningful adaptive reuse strategies are
found — ones that exemplify perception as “master of space in the exact
measure in which action is the master of time.”7
1 John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Book 2, Chapter 1 (London: Printed by Eliz.
Holt, for Thomas Basset, MDCXC). 2 http://www. davidchipperfield.co.uk/project/neues_museum
(accessed February 22, 2016). 3 Ibid. 4 Oxford Dictionaries, http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/
us/definition/american_english/ghost (accessed February 16, 2016). 5 http://auschwitz.org/en/his-
tory/ (accessed February 16, 2016). 6 “Breaking the Silence: Learning about the Transatlantic Slave
Trade,” http://old.antislavery.org/breakingthesilence/slave_routes/slave_routes_france.shtml (accessed
February 16, 2016). 7 Henri Bergson (transl. Nancy Margaret Paul and W. Scott Palmer), Matter and
Memory (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1911), p. 11.
147
In 2015, the 100-year-old abandoned church of Santa Barbara in Asturias,
Spain, was saved from demolition and transformed to a skate park with the
insertion of wooden skating ramps that span from side of church to side of
church. An escalator leading to the lobby of Copenhagen’s Skt. Petri Hotel
recalls its 2003 conversion from the 1930s Danish shopping mall Dælls
Varehus. Change of use is at the heart of adaptive reuse practice that gives
new purpose to an unused or underutilized structure. From the common
conversion of residential space to the ubiquitous home-office, from the
grand conversions of Roman baths to cathedral, or from grain storage facil-
ity to library, it is an operation both familiar and extraordinary. At many scales
of transformation, change of use refers to the common process within a
given structure of exchanging one type of activity for another or, in the case
of an unused building or ruin, bringing it back to life. (figs. 1, 2)
Defined as the intended purpose (or purposes) of a building or part thereof,
use is determined by the many spaces within a given structure. The design
of these different spaces — their sizes and relationships to each other — is an
interpretation of the architectural program, a document translating a client’s
needs for a building into spatial terms. It can be a simple set of square foot-
age requirements determined by the client. It can also be a product of a
programming service that includes an elaborate process of goal-setting, val-
ue identification and expert consultations. No matter its form or complexity,
the architectural program defines a building’s use by identifying all required
spaces and their intended occupants, establishing the size of each space
and the relationship between them and providing a framework of efficiency
for accommodating these spaces within a building.
The architectural program document facilitates the design of a building or
space, both as new construction and in adaptive reuse projects. The “bubble
148 Fitting In 10

FIG.0: The Nikolaj Kunsthal is a Contemporary Art Centre in the former Saint Nicholas Church in Copenhagen.
10
Fitting In
FIG.1: The entry to Skt. Petri FIG.2: The converted church of
Hotel in Copenhagen. Santa Bárbara in Asturias.
diagram” has traditionally been a method for understanding and visualizing

the relationship between the various spaces described in the design brief.
With each required space depicted as a circle relative to its intended size,
these diagrams of interconnected circles are interpretations of how the dif-
ferent spaces of the building might relate to one another. They stretch in
seemingly limitless space, often without acknowledgment of vertical adja-
cencies. In the last decades, diagramming architectural programs as a tool
has expanded in scope. OMA’s 1999 proposal for the Seattle Public Library
introduced the concept of the architectural program as generator of form. In
the now seminal section drawings of the library, the program elements are
presented not as “bubbles” but as words of varying font sizes, color, and
character that express the scale of each space and its relative adjacencies.
While the ”bubble diagram” expresses use as a sprawling two-dimensional
abstraction, OMA’s section diagram speaks to use as inhabiting a three-
dimensional form with the limitations of volumetric parameters. This distinc-
tion between the two types of diagrams is expressive of the relationship
of the architectural program to a new building as opposed to an existing
structure. In the former, all is possible within the constraints of site. In the
latter, design is dictated, in most part, by the confines of the host structure.
(figs. 3, 4)
While equally constrained by the limitations of budget and of site, the bases
for design of new structures and for adapted existing structures differ in the
making of form. In new construction, the form of the building is generated by
the accommodation of program elements. The form of adaptive reuse projects
150 Fitting In 10

FIG.3: Unité d’habitation, Marseille, 1945, Schéma
d’organisation des services communs, Le Corbusier.
FIG.4: “Legibility Section,” OMA‘s program diagram

for the Seattle Central Library, WA, 1999.© OMA
151
FIG.5: Dresden Military History Museum
by Daniel Libeskind.
FIG.6: Elbphilharmonie, Hamburg,

by Herzog & de Meuron.
is, instead, primarily predetermined by the form of its host. The primary task
lies in accommodating the program elements of use within this pre-existing
form. Additions to existing structures can certainly transform an existing form
in a most dramatic fashion, as exemplified by projects such as the Dresden
Military History Museum or the Elbphilharmonie in Hamburg, Germany. None-
theless, the extended and revised forms are derived from or in response to
the host characteristics. In adaptive reuse, the unlimited and expansive nature
inherent in the ”bubble diagram” has less relevance. Rather, new spatial re-
quirements must be carefully fitted into an existing form. (figs. 5, 6)
From gloves to political affiliation and from schedules to diversity, “fit” has
multiple definitions and implications. The consideration of a new use in an
existing structure is dependent on ”fit” and the potential for intervention.
In adaptive reuse, the concept of ”fit” yields different interpretations, both
objective and subjective. In the most basic sense, “fit” refers to size. The
desired size of any architectural project is manifested in the total square
footage of the architectural program described in the brief. With new con-
struction, one designs directly to these spatial requirements. In the reuse
of an existing structure, one needs to determine the feasibility of accommo-
152 Fitting In 10

dating all the necessary program elements within the host. As pre-existing
space, this question of physical “fit” is partly determined by the intended
use or occupancy. For a full investigation, one must begin with understand-
ing “use” as defined by building regulations.
Building regulations classify all building uses through types of occupancies.1
In the International Building Code, they are: Group A for Assembly, Group B
for Business, Group E for Education, Group F for Factory and Industrial,
Group H for Hazardous, Group I for Institutional, Group M for Mercantile,
Group R for Residential, Group S for Storage and Group U for Utility and Mis-
cellaneous. (fig. 7)
FIG.7: Assembly Group classifications of

the International Building Code.
153
Assembly occupancies, or Group A, refer to buildings or spaces used for
gathering. This group is divided into subgroups that address the act
of assembling for social, civic, religious and entertainment purpos-
es. These groups are differentiated by varying factors: the presence
of fixed seating, the presence of food or drink, use as worship or
amusement, whether the activity is indoors or outdoors. Assembly
occupancies include theaters, sports facilities, bars, churches,
restaurants, libraries, art galleries, waiting areas of transportation
terminals.
Business occupancies, or Group B, refer to buildings or spaces used for
offices, professional activities and service transactions. While this
category is self-evident with uses such as post office, offices and
car wash facilities, it does include airport control towers, outpatient
clinics and educational facilities above the 12th grade.
Educational occupancies, or Group E, refer to buildings or spaces used for
educational purposes of up to the 12th grade and for more than six
occupants.
Factory occupancies, or Group F, refer to buildings or spaces used for dif-
ferent manufacturing activities such as fabricating, assembling, pack-
ing and processing, as long as these activities are not hazardous and
do not contain a storage use. Such activities are subdivided into
moderate and low hazards with critical differences of combustibility.
For example, the space for a baker or a luthier, both with some de-
gree of combustibility, is considered moderately hazardous while the
space for the production of ceramics or ice is considered low hazard.
High Hazard occupancies, or Group H, similarly refer to manufacturing ac-
tivities such as that of Group F but are distinguished as those that
constitute a health hazard.
Institutional occupancies, or Group I, refer specifically to the use of a build-
ing or a space for the care of those who are not capable of self-pres-
ervation without supervision. This group is subdivided with differen-
tiations of the user groups: hospitals, detention centers, rehabilitation
centers, assisted living centers.
Mercantile occupancies, or Group M, refer to the use of a building or a space
for the display and sale of merchandise with the inclusion of some
storage of stock.
Residential occupancies, or Group R, refer to the use of a building or a space
for sleeping, where it does not constitute a Group I designation. This
group is subdivided with distinctions of transiency, numbers of units
and numbers of occupants. This group includes hotels, dormitories,
convents as well as the single-family home.
Storage occupancies, or Group S, refer to the use of a building or a space for
non-hazardous storage. It is subdivided into moderate and low hazard.
154 Fitting In 10

Utility occupancies, or Group U, serve as a catchall for accessory buildings.
They include airport hangars, barns and garages.
Understanding “use” as a product of occupancy group classifications per-

mits the determination of “fit” in two ways: first, as the number of occu-
pants an existing structure might accommodate for a particular use, and,
second, as the size required to accommodate a specific number of occu-
pants for a given use.
For a particular occupancy, a related allowable load factor can be determined
through occupancy load charts such as IBC Table 1004.1.2, “Maximum Floor
Area Allowances per Occupant.”2 The product of this load factor and the size
of the host structure determine the number of occupants allowed within the
existing space of the host structure for a particular program of use.
LOAD FACTOR (# OCC/SF) X SIZE OF HOST STRUCTURE (SF)

= ALLOWABLE OCCUPANTS
Conversely, with a pre-determined number of occupants and use, a version

of the same equation can be used to calculate the size of host structure
required for their accommodation.
DESIRED # OF OCCUPANTS / LOAD FACTOR (# OF OCC/SF)

= SIZE OF REQUIRED HOST STRUCTURE
These simple equations determine physical “fit” as the feasibility of a new

program of “use” within a host structure. They can also serve as indicators
of the types of interventions required for a project. If the allowable number
of occupants or the square footage of the desired spaces exceeds that al-
lowed in the host structure, an addition might be required. If the allowable
number of occupants or the total square footage of the desired spaces is far
less than that allowed in the host structure, additional program may be add-
ed or a subtraction can occur. Such subtractions are opportunities for atriums
and other voids in the host structure.
Considering the physical “fit” of space through the lens of economics offers
an entirely different outlook. When adaptive reuse is the product of fiscal
incentives, the existing structure may serve a role other than host. Tax in-
centives are oftentimes the drivers of reuse in the conversion of non-heri-
tage structures such as the reuse of schools for housing. In such cases, the
viability of the conversion is premised on the potential profit of the venture,
in this case, the greatest number of salable units. When the host structure
is a landmark building, it may be valued for its authenticity, which in turn
serves a role in marketing and branding. Viewed in economic terms, this
authenticity is sometimes skin-deep, as space equates to revenue. With “fit”
155
FIG.8: This conversion of St. Teresa’s
Church in Watertown, MA, to a
condominium complex ultimately
distorted its original form.
FIGS.9a–c: The conversion of the

Brutalist St. Agnes Church in Berlin
to the König Galerie.
156 Fitting In 10

FIGS.10a–b: Reversible interventions
transformed the Montemartini thermoelectric
center in Rome to the Centrale Montemartini
museum.
defined as maximized square footage, the preservation of the assets of a

host structure becomes secondary. The church-condominium conversion
type illustrates this principle in which the assets of the host, its authenticity
and character, are used as unique setting for the marketing of luxury condos.
In reality, the maximization of revenue through the insertion of floors of
apartment units into the grand church interior destroys this very authentici-
ty itself. The General Principles of the Athens Charter of 1931 recommending
“that the occupation of buildings, which ensures the continuity of their life,
should be maintained but that they should be used for a purpose which re-
spects their historic or artistic character”3 was intended to safeguard against
such types of reuse. A different conversion from church to gallery, on the
other hand, views “fit” as one pertaining primarily to character rather than
profit or size. The interior of the Brutalist St. Agnes Church in Berlin, Germa-
ny, with its windowless, toplit space was, by its architectural characteristics,
a perfect “fit” for an art gallery, a program type specifically requiring win-
dowless space and unique lighting conditions. This new use preserves the
Brutalist heritage of the church and, in doing so, is an ideal interpretation of
the Athens Charter recommendation. (figs. 8, 9a–c)
From the viewpoint of preservation and rehabilitation of historic property, ”fit”
might refer to a new use that “will be undertaken in such a manner that, if
removed in the future, the essential form and integrity of the historic property
and its environment would be unimpaired.”4 This requirement posits imper-
manence or reversibility as an aspect of ”fit.” An example is the 1912 Monte
martini thermoelectric center, the first public power plant to produce elec-
tricity for Rome, Italy. Sited between the General Markets and the left bank
of the Tiber, this industrial heritage building was transformed into the Cen-
trale Montemartini museum for the exhibition of the Musei Capitolini’s clas-
sical sculpture. The machinery remained in situ in the transformation of the
157
boiler rooms into art galleries. Low-impact, easily removable construction,
such as half walls and partitions, enables this new use that juxtaposes the
classical with the industrial. The introduction of a new use in this case safe-
guards for the future the integrity of the antique machines and their environ-
ment. (figs. 10a–b)
”Fit” can also refer to compatibility and appropriateness of size, character
and shape. In the first adaptive reuse project to transform the frigidarium of
the Baths of Diocletian in Rome, Italy, to a High Renaissance church, the
vaulted bays of the existing host structure ”fit” the needs of a church in
terms of scale, shape, sequential circulation and appropriateness. The mon-
umental remains of the vaulted frigidarium evoked a quality and scale desir-
able for a church. Its compatibility lay in the ease with which the existing
space could be adapted for its new use. The amphitheater at Arles, France,
with its repetitive structure of 120 arches ”fit” the need for fortification in
the 5th century AD after the fall of the Roman Empire. Its size, once accomo-
dating 20,000 spectators of Roman games, was appropriate for housing a
reduced population of approximately 200 households, with the open arena
as town square. The compatibility of the program of arena for reuse as me-
dieval town was complemented by the potential of the physical structure to
support additional load. The existing stone construction supported the addi-
tion of four lookout towers, the hallmark of its converted use as walled city.
The correlation of existing space to new use is critical in an adaptive reuse
relationship, as evidenced by the ”fit” between two seemingly disparate
uses — a coliseum and a small town. This reciprocity is at the heart of a ”fit”
of compatibility. (figs. 11a–b, 12a–b)
In addition to the many nuances of “fit,” “use” has direct and concrete impli-
cations. In building codes, change of use from one occupancy type to anoth-
er (and even within the same occupancy from one sub-group to another)
158 Fitting In 10

FIGS.11a–b, 12a–b: There is a similar compatibility of fit in the use
of the frigidarium of the Baths of Diocletian as the Church of Santa
Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and the Arles Amphitheater as a
fortified town.
triggers life, safety, and welfare issues. Critical building information — height
and area limitations, types of construction and finishes, fire protection,
means of egress, accessibility, systems — is dependent on use group des-
ignation. Therefore, any change in use and occupancy may result in a change
in the design of these parts of a building. For example, the conversion of the
Group H electrical power station to the Group A Centrale Montemartini mu-
seum is one that increases numbers of occupants. The change from design-
ing for the few users of a mechanical space to accommodating large groups
of museum visitors would affect occupancy-related criteria such as egress.
Conversely, designing for the physical dangers of hazardous spaces would
159
FIGS.13a–b: The decommissioned Tempelhof Airport in
Berlin is reused for multiple programs from park to fashion
runway and temporary shelter for refugees.
differ dramatically from designing for a space of assembly, in particular with

fire-resistive materials and fire ratings.
A change of use in a semi-ruin or ruin that requires complete renovation plus
an addition triggers a consideration of all code categories, as one would do
for a new building. A change of use within a shell-type host, an intervention
that takes place primarily within the host building, might, on the other hand,
require consideration of only key conditions pertaining to the interior. For the
designer, occupancy-dependent criteria include occupant loads, egress, and
fire resistance ratings. These elements determine, for example, how many
occupants the new program of use can accommodate, the types of surfaces
and materials, the required means of egress, the size of the egress compo-
nents and even their placement in plan. These many critical parts of the code
also contribute to the assessment of “fit.”
Adaptive reuse transformations often include more than one type of use
within any given structure. Mixed-use occupancy is defined as the co-exis-
tence of several use groups within a single structure. In such cases, the
requirements of each occupancy type are calculated and the most stringent
prevail, unless the uses are separated by fire-rated partitions. For example,
the decommissioned Tempelhof Airport building in Berlin, Germany, is re-
used for various functions that take place concurrently in different areas of
160 Fitting In 10

the sprawling facility. The uses range from fashion shows to outdoor park
and, most recently, as refugee housing. These functions, respectively occu-
pancy groups A1, A5, and R1, could be considered in two ways: as individ-
ual uses each with its own requirements and separated from each other, or
as a single multi-use group that conforms to the strictest requirements.
(figs. 13a–b)
The implication of “fit” and “use” are complex and most often offer many
interpretations. Mark Twain said: “A round man cannot be expected to fit in
a square hole right away. He must have time to modify his shape.” In adap-
tive reuse practice, it is the process of designing that round shape to fit into
a square opening that creates a unique logistical, functional, and even poet-
ic opportunity.
1 For the purpose of this discussion, all code regulations are derived from the International Building
Code. 2 2015 International Building Code (Country Club Hills, Illinois: International Code Council,
2014), Section 1004.1.2. 3 The Athens Charter for the Restoration of Historic Monuments — 1931,
ICOMOS International Council on Monuments and Sites, http://www.icomos.org/en/charters-and-
texts/179-articles-en-francais/ressources/charters-and-standards/167-the-athens-charter-for-the-resto-
ration-of-historic-monuments (accessed February 16, 2016). 4 Kay D. Weeks and Anne E. Grimmer,
The Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Property, with Guidelines for
Preserving, Rehabilitating, Restoring & Reconstructing Historic Buildings (Washington, DC: U.S.
Department of the Interior, 1995), p. 62.
161
Hosts and guests are fundamental to each other’s existence. This reciproc-
ity also defines the relationship between host structure and new, or reno-
vated, use. New use is implemented at many different scales, as dictated
by the different host types, discussed in the chapter Hosts [and Guests]. As
transformative architectural actions, these interventions range from those
wielding minor impact on the host to ones in which the host structure is
subsumed. To better understand the nature of this relationship, we further
probe the actions discussed in the chapter Considering DNA and explore the
degree of interface between new use and existing confines. We begin our
examination of these different actions with those uses that require minimal
interaction with the host structure.
The shell-type host structure permits both limited and unlimited actions with-
in the confines of its infrastructure. Interior conversions typically respect the
existing structural system, the floor plates and the envelope. Within these
constraints, the host of this type acts as a blank slate for unlimited new
design strategies. The shell-type host acts simply as a box for the introduc-
tion of new spatial experience, with a minimal degree of interface between
its surfaces and the new use. This lack of embeddedness is characteristic of
a temporary type of reuse noted for its brief life cycle. While there are many
functional types of such temporary use, the most common are for exhibition
and retail purposes.
As a type of shell host, the exhibition hall exemplifies best the idea of tem-
porary inhabitation within an existing structure. It has a first instance in Joseph
Paxton’s Crystal Palace, erected in London, England, to house the Great Ex-
hibition of 1851. The precursor to world’s fairs and exhibitions, Crystal Palace
featured a groundbreaking modular, cast iron and glass structure that provided
13 kilometers (8 miles) of display tables, accommodating 14,000 international

FIG.0: String-a-Ling installation, RISD MDES Summer Program 2011.
11
Host
The Impassive
FIG.1: The Alape exhibit by Heine/Lenz/
Zizka for the ISH Trade Fair in Frankfurt.
FIG.2: The Art Gallery at Oklahoma State FIG.3: The converted Dacheng Flour Mills
University, Stillwater, OK. hosts exhibits such as the Shenzhen
Biennale 2015.
exhibitors and their wares.1 Within a simple open floor plan, a regular column
grid created bays within which individual exhibitors showcased their goods:
false teeth, carpets, ribbons, artificial legs, Colt’s repeating pistol, the Koh-i-
Noor diamond, Goodyear india rubber goods, statues, chewing tobacco. In
the vast hall, exhibitors tailored their booths to the scale, shape, and charac-
ter of their respective product. The exhibition hall as a host structure required
little to no interaction, and exhibits were installed and uninstalled with relative
ease. As a host structure, the exhibition hall is characterized by indistinctive
DNA , features that simply act as background.
From expos to museums, today’s exhibition spaces have not changed much
from this standard. They remain host buildings with regular bays that allow
for a succession of changing exhibits. As tools of commerce, the changing
exhibits take on varying forms, inhabiting a finite space of temporary walls,
reconfigurable lighting, paint and graphics. The host is an empty box for
displaying these objects and the intervention an impermanent occupation.
At the 2015 ISH in Frankfurt, Germany, a trade fair for water and energy

FIG.4: corpus, Ann Hamilton, 2003–2004,
MASS MoCA, North Adams, MA.
FIG.5a: Lee Boroson’s Deep Current, FIG.5b: Uplift, Lee Boroson, 2014, Plastic
a recreation of a waterfall. Fantastic, MASS MoCA.
products, the Alape display occupied a place in the vast exposition hall as a
series of abstract boxes of different sizes. Showcasing various bath products,
each box creates a weightless, precise and pristine atmosphere, intended
to reflect the characteristics of the plumbing product on display. The display
boxes float above the floor plane by way of a cantilevered construction detail.
As a defined group, they are boxes within the larger box of the exhibition
hall. They establish a brand presence among a sea of other displays, to be
repeated at the next exposition. (fig. 1)
Museums are variants of shell hosts in which the different galleries are the
small boxes within a large box that are reconfigured for each new show. In
museums with clearly delineated permanent and temporary shows, the im-
permanent galleries transform through new interior partitions, lighting and
paint, engaging the host through non-structural and removable construction
to accommodate the type and style of art displayed. (fig. 2)
In recent decades, some notable exhibition halls and museums were them-
selves converted structures. The 1986 conversion of the Gare d’Orsay in
165
Paris, France, to the Musée d’Orsay by Gae Aulenti is one of the forerunners
of this type. The intervention of low walls and a unique display system trans-
formed the cavernous train station to a series of traditional picture galleries
within a single space. At more recently converted museums such as Mass-
MOCA in North Adams, Massachusetts, USA, previously an 18 th-century
manufacturing complex, there is no desire for the vast industrial spaces
that once held enormous machines to conform to the standards of a tradi-
tional museum. Instead, the gigantic exhibition spaces, the size of football
fields, inspire monumental and unconventional exhibits, from a re-creation
of Niagara Falls in sheet plastic2 to a sea of magenta-tinged sheets of onion-
skin paper.3 These pieces derive their scale and character from the host
structure and interface with it through art. Exhibitions such as the Shenzhen
Biennale of 2015 took place in the “found space” of an old flour factory instead
of the common exhibition hall or converted museum. In these instances, a
temporary exhibit inserted into a raw space must contend with the traces
of several past lives, the characteristic of a more complex “box” host. (figs. 3,
4, 5a–b)
The Pop-Up
The pop-up store is another variant of temporary occupation in an existing
shell-type host structure. Defined as short-term retail, pop-ups are often
seasonal and provide a transitory tenancy in otherwise vacant space. In
recent years, they have also become a tool of high-end brands, as brief,
three-dimensional advertising. As seasonal or one-off transitory space, pop-
ups are, by nature, defined by an economy of means. They are often self-con-
tained and do not engage the systems of the host interior. Like exhibits at
an expo, the pop-up is often designed for ease of installation, with imper-
manent and inexpensive materials. For some brands, pop-ups are demount-
able, for reuse in another location.
The setting for pop-up retail varies. Pop-ups for malls or airports are in reali-
ty objects that float within a larger space. As in the exhibit hall, the host
structure is indistinctive and offers little context for design. The Illy Pop-Up
designed for the Venice Biennale is a self-contained unit that opens to in-
clude all equipment as well as furniture. It functions independently of the
host structure. It provides the same coffee and a place to consume it wheth-
er it is sited in the Campo San Stefano or the Mojave Desert. By contrast,
the Illy Pop-Up store in Milan, also in Italy, is a demountable system. Its
design concept is premised on a 45-centimeter display cube with variations
of storage capabilities that can be reconfigured through combinatory logic
to 3,000 permutations. Easily assembled and disassembled, this design in-
teracts with different simple host conditions of wall and ceiling to provide,

FIGS.6, 7: Pop-up stores for the Illy
coffee brand by Adam Kalkin in Venice
and Caterina Tiazzoldi in Milan.
in the end, variations of the same iconic store. In either case, there is little
interaction between the host and the new use. The host becomes simply a
stage for implementing brand image. (figs. 6, 7)
Prada Pop-Ups in Paris and in Venice demonstrate the importance of brand
image to host context. Both stores are located in classical architectural set-
tings with interiors typical of their respective locale; 19th-century Place Beau-
vau in Paris and 18th-century Calle Larga XXII Marzo in Venice. Within the
graceful context of tall period windows and marbled floors, the designs
nonetheless introduce new surfaces and partitions within the existing to
establish a new identity. In the case of the Paris store, the walls — both ex-
ternal and internal — are covered in a trompe-l’œil of an iconic bridge. In
Venice, a consistent set of low walls is introduced within the historic Vene-
167
tian palazzo, directly against the existing walls, to define the limit of the host
and the intervention.
Alternatively, some pop-up stores, especially for high-end brands, thrive on
a host context for their design. Set within intriguing hosts, from historic to
sumptuous and shabby-chic, the pop-up derives added value from such as-
sociation. The richness of the context therefore offsets the need for elabo-
rate interventions. The Frame Store in Amsterdam, Netherlands, a six-month
display of fashion, food, and design for Frame Magazine, illustrates this con-
cept with a setting of a historic 18th-century interior inside the Felix Meritis
building. With a long history as a center of art, science and culture, the
Neoclassical temple-fronted building has also held other lives as concert hall,
printing company, Communist party headquarters, and theater. Its interior,
though faded and scarred, reflects its original grandeur in the classical win-
dows and ornate millwork. With a need to introduce casework and display
shelves, the interventions consist of mirrored surfaces and boxes, placed
precisely within the room to engage this architectural past. The many reflec-
tions multiply the host features, visually juxtaposing old and new. Framing
the new use visually as part of a continuum of change, these new interven-
tions are freestanding and do not impact the historic interior. (figs. 8a–c)

FIGS.8a–c: i29 interior architects‘ inter
ventions to the Felix Meritis Building in
Amsterdam take full advantage of the context
without impacting the historic host.
Interior Retrofit
Interior retrofit refers to a full and transforming renovation of an interior
space. It often refers to use as retail or restaurant but can also be broadened
in definition to include offices and residential projects. Similar to the exhibi-
tion and the pop-up, the interior retrofit temporarily inhabits a shell-type host
as part of a continuum of interior transformations over time. While exhibi-
tions work on a short cycle of change over weeks, and the pop-up of months,
the interior retrofit operates on a longer cycle of years, one dependent on
the success of the venture. With the primary goal of catering to consumption,
these projects are based on design concepts to sell a product through spatial
experience.
The Camper shoe brand offers insight into this relationship between product
and interior retrofit. In partnership with global designers to brand through
architecture, the stores range from the interactive to the sublime. In Barce-
lona, Spain, the Camper store is simply a giant message board where the
design is the message. Clients are invited to write on the walls, and the
resultant graffiti as message corroborates the brand idea: “Design elements
are means to transmit a message and the content becomes as valuable as
the aesthetics. Decoration is thus transformed into information and informa-
tion into decoration.”4 While the Barcelona store exemplifies the latter, the
169
FIGS.9, 10: The different branding strategies for Camper Stores
illustrate the nature of interior retrofit.
New York City 5th Avenue store exemplifies the former. Here, decorations in
the form of cast shoes — walls of them — transmit the message for the few
real shoes on display. In either case, the host provides the architectural
framework for the implementation of design messages that, most often,
have no relationship to the host. The host structure, in fact, is a means to a
commercial objective. (figs. 9, 10)
Temporary occupation as pop-up or retrofit is implemented as different ex-
periences within a box-like host. There are two types of boxes: the plain shoe
box and the jeweled box. The former is unadorned, with either basic surfaces

FIGS.11a–b: Reversible interventions create
small outdoor reading rooms at the landmark
Redwood Library Athenaeum, Newport, RI.
or often open studs awaiting new surfaces. Interventions within it require a

simple engagement of new non-bearing walls, finishes, furnishing and equip-
ment, and a tie-in to the existing systems. Although these elements of the
host are typically indistinctive, there is nonetheless a need to account for
the peculiarities of existing column grids and systems. In this respect, these
interventions are more complex than those of the exhibit booth or the pop-
up. The jeweled box type host is instead a type of interior retrofit in which
the architectural attributes of the host structure are used to enhance brand,
as in the Frame Store. In this instance, the existing traces of the host shell
add an aura to the products, and the concept of the design is entirely con-
ceived around such distinctive DNA. The shoe box and the jeweled box illus-
trate two very different types of shell-host DNA and the interventions they
inspire.
Heritage Interventions
Landmark structures are shell-type hosts because the entire host or some
part of it is protected and cannot be changed. In landmark properties where
existing architectural DNA is vital to their existence and heritage status, in-
terventions must engage the host lightly. Most often these interventions
harken back to the host structure itself and are limited by the pertinent
preservation regulations. Despite such limitations, interventions in heritage
properties are those within the shell-type host category that engage most
with the host’s features. (figs. 11a–b)
Landmark designation protects different parts of a historic building: the ex-
terior shell, the interior or both. The 1928 International Magazine Building in
New York City, New York, USA, is a six-story office building with an ordinary
interior and an Art Deco stone facade. In this case, only the exterior was
protected as a landmark. The Interior Landmark5 designation, on the other
171
FIG.12a: Mies van der Rohe’s Crown Hall, Chicago, IL, is a fully FIG.12b: Only the facade of the International
protected landmark. Magazine Building is preserved in the Hearst
Tower, NY.
hand, pertains only to the protection of the interior of a space. This designa-
tion is a relatively recent type of protection and includes historic residences,
courthouses, theaters, cinemas and the interiors of other extraordinary build-
ings such as Mies van der Rohe’s Crown Hall in Chicago, Illinois, USA. In the
example of the International Magazine Building that did not have an Interior
Landmark designation, protective restrictions did not apply beyond the fa-
cade, enabling any and all changes within the interior. This is evident in the
total gutting of the interior in the current, transformed Hearst Tower, a
46-floor skyscraper emerging from the preserved facades of the Internation-
al Magazine Building. With Interior Landmark designation, change is instead
permitted on the facade but not within the interior. By contrast, in fully pro-
tected heritage, like for example Crown Hall, both the exterior and the inte-
rior are designated landmarks. (figs. 12a–b)
Beyond the requirements of building regulations, heritage structures are also
regulated by codes such as, in the USA, The Secretary of the Interior’s Stan-
dards for the Treatment of Historic Properties. With the primary objective to
preserve heritage as legacy, most of the regulations are aimed at retaining
historic character in its many forms: material, detail, shape, use. The standards,
however, are not opposed to the introduction of a new use as long as it
wields minimal change to the monument’s distinctive character. Similar to
the international regulations of the Venice Charter, Clause 9 of The Secretary

FIGS.13a–d: Within a heritage exterior, the
market building in Alcaniz is converted
to a Civic and Children’s Center through non-
invasive interior interventions by Miquel
Mariné and César Rueda.
of the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties references

new additions with the proviso that they are differentiated from and com-
patible with the existing. Clause 10 is unique in requiring new work to be
reversible, that is, if the new intervention were to be removed in future the
essential existing form would be unimpaired. These two clauses together
provide an opportunity for creative interventions to historic hosts.
Within the range of interventions in heritage buildings, the Centro Infantil
del Mercado in Alcañiz, Spain, demonstrates the potential for intervention
within a protected historic exterior. Occupying a corner site in this Aragonese
173
town, the abandoned market has been infused with new life through use as
a child care center. The exterior shell is untouched, maintaining the urban
context, while the interior is entirely transformed. Interior partitions dodge
and weave themselves within and around the existing internal structure — the
new architecture inspired by, but not interfering with, the distinctive features
of the host. (figs. 13a–d)
By contrast, the 15th-century Church of San Felice in Guglionesi, Italy, is a
protected interior that, over time, has undergone a series of devastating
renovations. Originally noted for its colorful features, the church was sub-
jected to many renovations that have left little trace of its original polychrome
wall decorations. With insufficient evidence of these interior features, a lib-
eral application of preservation regulations permitted the acknowledgment
of the loss of the polychrome color of the walls through a whitewashing. Its
past identity of polychrome surfaces was reintroduced as an intervention of
a multi-colored tile composition in the floor. The insertion of the new floor
demonstrates a reversible intervention that can be removed in future without
impacting the original structure. (figs. 14a–b)
Herzog & de Meuron’s intervention to the room for Company D of the Park
Street Armory in New York City, New York, USA, extends the limits of pres-
ervation regulations. As a landmark exterior, the Armory comprises certain
rooms such as the one of Company D that also received Interior Landmark
designation. In the Company D room, the restoration of the wall surfaces
revealed many layers of color and pattern superimposed upon each other,
affirming the difficulty of establishing a clear authenticity. When posed with
this dilemma at Vézelay, Paris and Carcassonne, Viollet-le-Duc elected to
bring his work to a new reality, one that had not previously existed. Heir to
this conservation dilemma, Herzog & de Meuron instead elected to place
their mark on this long history by the addition of a newly invented pattern,
one inspired by the materials and forms of the past that would provide a
connection through material and time to the future. (figs. 15a–b)
From large-span exposition sheds to historic interiors, new interventions into
the shell-type structure are defined by a minimal interface with the host.
Wielding little impact on the existing structures, these architectural actions
focus instead on the creation of brand and experience within an impassive
host.
1 ”Crystal Palace,” The Encyclopedia Britannica. http://www.britannica.com/topic/Crystal-Palace-build-

ing-London. 2 The waterfall was part of the exhibition Lee Boroson: Plastic Fantastic, MASS MoCA,
October 2014–May 2015. 3 The sea of paper was part of the exhibition Ann Hamilton: corpus, MASS
MoCA, December 2003–October 2004. 4 On the Barcelona store by Martí Guixé, see the Camper
website, http://www.camper.com/en_US/shops/stores (accessed February 21, 2016). 5 Interior
landmark designations are determined by local commissions within individual cities, for example, Phil-
adelphia’s Preservation Alliance or Boston’s Landmark Commission.

FIGS.14a–b: Claudio Greco’s tile floor
intervention in the restoration of the
St. Felice church in Avignonesi.
FIGS.15a–b: At the landmark

Park Avenue Armory in New York
City, NY, Herzog & de Meuron
have created a new authenticity.
175
Installation art is distinguished from other traditional art forms as a single
unified experience rather than a display of individual pieces of art. Defined
in part by its relationship to site, installation art as a group forms a subset of
use for various types of host structures. As an art form that transforms space,
installation art has several precedents. In Hanover, Germany, Kurt Schwitters’
Merzbau was an abstract three-dimensional collage of ever-shifting found
objects, placed inside a single space from 1923 to 1937. Defying definition,
Merzbau was its own environment, created through many interventions over
time. In May 1971, Alanna Heiss invited artists to create work inspired by
the Brooklyn Bridge, New York, USA, and sited below its western base.
This intervention that lasted for three days came to be known as the Brook-
lyn Bridge Event. Almost half a century and an ocean apart, these two
works are early instances of the intervention as a response to site-specific
characteristics and its extension into the larger, neglected urban context.
(fig. 1)
Artist Ilya Kabakov said: “The main actor in the total installation, the main
centre toward which everything is addressed, for which everything is in-
tended, is the viewer.”1 Installation art places the viewer in a space, one
transformed for a calculated experience that takes place in many forms and
locales and at many scales. As an intervention within the host structure of
a gallery, the relationship of the installation to the physical space varies.
Some installations aim to create an “other world” experience within the
impersonal, white gallery, transporting the viewer through a mental engage-
ment. In Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded View, Cornelia Parker recreates
the explosion of a wood barn inside a gallery of the Tate Modern by using
the barn remains. Suspended from the ceiling, the pieces are transformed
from charred wood to the idea of explosion through their reflections on the

FIG.0: Blue Print, installation by Sui Park in a former f actory building in Philadelphia, PA.
12
Interventions
Sited
FIG.2: Cornelia Parker‘s Cold Dark Matter: An
Exploded View, 1991, Tate Gallery.
FIG.1: Merzbau, Kurt Schwitters, FIG.3: Sol LeWitt‘s Wall Drawing 51,
1923–1937, Hannover. MASS MoCA Building 7.
surrounding gallery surfaces. The explosion is reinvented through shadow,

which constitutes an intervention relatively independent of its context. The
museum gallery as a host is neutral, intentionally without spatial cues.
This type of intervention recalls the exhibition hall model in which the shell-
type host structure provides a wrapper for the insertion of new experience.
(fig. 2)
At the other extreme, installation art takes place as sited work within a
charged room. Sol LeWitt’s Wall Drawing 51 is such an example in which the
art is entirely premised on the pre-existing conditions of the space. Part of
a series of wall drawings in which each is produced through a specific set of
instructions, Wall Drawing 51 is a product of the words “All architectural
points connected by straight lines.”2 The resulting drawing, a work that dif-
fers with each installation, consists of a series of blue chalk construction
snap-lines, each connecting the architectural elements within the space:
door frame, door jamb, column, fire alarm. Relying on the particular architec-
ture of a particular space, each installation of Wall Drawing 51 is unique. Sol
LeWitt’s instructions transform the relationship between shell and new use
to one of an interdependency of host and work. (fig. 3)

FIGS.4, 5a–b: The installations of Dan Flavin
are entirely informed by the architectural
characteristics of the space they inhabit:
Lights at Museum of Modern Art, Vienna
(MuMoK), Chiesa di Santa Maria Annunciata
in Chiesa Rossa, Milan.
179
Sited art interventions derive their sole objective from the space itself, aided
by the artists’ “set of directions.” The work of Dan Flavin, with its signature
assemblages of fluorescent light tubes, demonstrates a development in
which sited work began in the gallery context and evolved to a full engage-
ment with specific sites. Early installations of light into “’barred corridors’
and corner installations … concentrated on the relationship between his
sculptures and the spaces they inhabited,”3 which at that time consisted of
various museum galleries. Later work extended beyond the gallery to entire
architectural sites in which the notable characteristics of site informed his
compositions. At the Guggenheim Museum in New York, his light installations
were placed between the curving ovoid concrete bands, highlighting the
geometry of the volume. At the Chiesa Rossa in Milan, Flavin created central
light elements within this unremarkable church as a part of a renewal and
restoration project. Utilizing the simple light tube, he distinguished and high-
lighted separate architectural elements of the church interior through differ-
ent color renditions. The color differentiation served as a visual guide through
the church, emphasizing the sequence from entry to nave and altar. In a
reciprocal manner, the art is informed by the host and the host is trans-
formed by the art. (figs. 4, 5a–b)
Installations are not limited to the shell-type hosts of a single room or the
interior of a building. The size and scope of potential sites are limitless, from
all or part of a building to built infrastructure and entire built sites. Different
types of host structures provide unique and distinct issues of engagement
for sited art. The complexity of this relationship can be seen in three instal-
lations of Elise Morin’s Waste Landscape. An installation of 60,000 unused
or discarded CDs, sewn and draped over inflated mounds into an undulating
landscape of metallic dunes, it has been installed in varying host sites from
cultural art centers to public civic space. The placement of these mounds,
comprising five small “hills,” differs in each re-siting. Its first installation in
the courtyard of the Centquatre, a 19th-century funeral service establishment
converted to a cultural space, responds to the clearly delineated bays of the
Halle d’Aubervilliers, Paris, France. The dunes are placed to provide cross-cur-
rents within the highly regular grid implied by the multiple industrial open-
ings. Installed a second time in the courtyard of the city hall of The Hague
in the Netherlands, the five dunes reveal a slightly different configuration. In
a context without distinct architectural traces, the relationship between the
dunes is derived from their proximity to each other rather than from the
surrounding context. By contrast, its installation in the interior of a small
church turned art center in Troy, New York, USA, entails a placement of the
dunes that responds to the specificity of the church floor plan. So placed,
they appear as separate objects co-inhabiting a space, rather than as a uni-
fied landscape. These iterations of Waste Landscape in three different sites
speak to the effects of site specificity. (figs. 6a–b)

FIGS.6a–b: The configuration of Elise
Morin‘s Waste Landscape differs from its
first iteration #1 in Paris to #2 at The
Hague.
181
FIGS.7a–c: Taturo Atzu’s 2015 The Garden
Which is Nearest to God is dependent
physically on its host, the Oude Kerk in
Amsterdam, for structural support and
metaphorically on its context of church and
Red Light District for symbolic reference.
The 13th-century Oude Kerk, Amsterdam’s oldest building and parish church,
served as host to Taturo Atzu’s 2015 work, The Garden Which Is the Nearest
to God. Atzu installed a temporary platform over the entire sloping roof of
the church to provide a place for viewing the surrounding context of the
Oudekerksplein, a district of the city known for its legalized prostitution. As
in Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain, a urinal reframed as a drinking fountain, im-
plicit with implications, Atzu reframes the iconic image of a church with its
sloping roofs and skyward soaring spires. These religious references to heav-
en are hijacked in a literal leveling of the playing field. The massive horizontal
platform transforms the top of the church to a flat roof, giving access to the
unattainable spires and the heavens with the aim to look downwards and to
the red light district below. With a history that includes the expulsion by the
Calvinists of the homeless sheltered in the church, Oude Kerk is an ideal
host site for the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane. It offers a
unique combination of location and history, without which the intervention
would not exist. While the platform depends on the church for structural

FIG.8: Water falls from the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge in
Olafur Eliasson‘s 2008 The New York City Waterfalls.
support, the host in this case is crucial less for its physical attributes than for
its symbolic references. (figs. 7a–c)
Installations are not bound to host structures of architecture or architectural
spaces. Since the “Brooklyn Bridge Event [that] embodied a fascinating shift
in the art world’s awareness, appreciation and reclamation of neglected urban
spaces,”4 many bridges and old highways have been host to interventions, the
High Line in New York City being a prime example. Infrastructure as host pro-
183
FIGS.9a–c: Subway infrastructure is
transformed by nascent technology
in Toyo Ito‘s 1986 Tower of the Winds,
Yokohama.
vides a monumental scale, enhanced loading capabilities and a special rela-

tionship to the built environment. Perhaps it is these opportunities that inspire
unique interventions pushing the boundaries of art, such as Olafur Eliasson’s
2008 installation, The New York City Waterfalls. This work used the underside
of the Brooklyn Bridge as one of four infrastructural hosts in New York City to
create a man-made waterfall in an urban setting. (fig. 8)
Such conditions paved the way for the transformation of a mechanical sub-
way ventilation shaft in the frenetic urban setting of Yokohama Station, Japan.
Through the addition of full-height perforated aluminum screens and the use
of then emerging digital technology to convert environmental conditions to
image, Toyo Ito’s Tower of the Winds project is an art installation entirely
generated from its context. By day, the aluminum screen reflects the activity
of Yokohama station as a quasi mirror. By night, the same activity, as intan-
gible phenomenon of traffic intensity, direction of wind, traffic and pedestri-
an movement around the square, is projected in the form of light and sound
onto the screened ventilation shaft. Emergent technology transforms data
to performance and infrastructure to sculpture.
The Tower of the Winds installation in 1986 can be seen as a pivotal point of
change, a herald of digital technology’s incursion into daily modern life. Utilized

FIG.10: Olafur Eliasson‘s The Weather
Project, Tate Museum, London.
FIG.11: Random International‘s Rain Room, Museum

of Modern Art, New York.
in this project as an agent of adaptive reuse, technology provides the adapted

host with a performative role. In comparison to the inert host structures of
exhibitions halls and interior retrofits, technology is an enabler of a new re-
lationship of host to reuse. (figs. 9a–c)
Two installation projects on the subject of weather illustrate the changing
nature of this relationship. Olafur Eliasson’s The Weather Project at the Tate
Museum in 2003 created an artificial sun in the 150-meter-long Turbine Hall.
Fabricated from an enormous backlit screen, the installation had as its aim
the eventual revelation of these mechanics. The process of revealing the
185
FIGS.12a–d: Technology is at the heart of
UN Studio‘s facade revitalization of the
Galleria Department Store West, Seoul.
screen was one of discovery, in which the visitor traversed the Turbine Hall.
As host, the Turbine Hall served as the inert monumental background in this
commentary on the social effects of weather. (fig. 10)
Random International’s Rain Room also addresses weather as phenomenon
in society. Installed several times into conventional gallery space — London’s
Barbican, New York’s MoMA PS1 — the installation creates an indoor rain-
storm. As with The Weather Project, a discovery is required; through a sys-
tem of sensors, the rain ceases only where one walks and recommences as
soon as one passes. Digital technology engineers the visitor interaction in
an engagement with the space. Visitors are required to forge their own paths
through the room in this staged simulation. In contrast to The Weather Proj-
ect, where the Turbine Hall served as container of an event, the digital tech-
nology in Rain Room facilitates the host’s participation in the installation.
Enabled by technology, the box gallery host becomes an actor in the play.
(fig. 11)
The proliferation of digital technology in art installation has activated existing
structures, transcending the static relationship of host and new use. Incor-
porating current preoccupations with the mediatization of image, technology
has given new life to the facade as host structure. In the renovation of the
Galleria Department Store West in Seoul, Korea, a new facade was added
on top of the existing skin. Employing more than 4,000 glass discs with di-
croic foil that was placed directly on the concrete surface, the new facade
displayed a mother-of-pearl effect by day and a landmark display of changing
LED activated light and color media by night. UN Studio posited this facade
intervention as a confrontation of image and society’s preoccupation with it,
in the context of the office’s experiments with ”combining different types
of image constructions.”5 (figs. 12a–d)

187
FIG.13: War Veteran Vehicle Project,
Liverpool 2009, Krzysztof Wodiczko.
FIG.14: Mette Ramsgaard‘s Slow Furl,

Lighthouse Gallery, Brighton, June 2008.
Extending beyond effects of light to animation, the video mapping on the

Amir Building of the Tel Aviv Museum in Israel further expands the collusion
of architecture, art and technology. A solid surface of segmented, ”folding”
concrete panels, the facade became a stage upon which a projection of light
and images revealed imagined porosity within the seams and surfaces of a
seemingly impregnable mass. The mapping transformed the facade momen-
tarily, imbuing it with new roles and interpretations.
The facade as host becomes the vehicle of activism in the work of Krzysztof
Wodiczko. Through video projections onto the facades of civic buildings, city
monuments are utilized as canvases to address the plight of the homeless,
the exploitation of hotel workers, the relationship between private economic
interest and public rights. With the belief that the facades themselves must
serve more than a role of weatherproofing, Wodiczko maintains that “not to
speak through the city monuments is to abandon them and to abandon our-
selves losing both a sense of history and the present …”6 (fig. 13)
The appropriation of the facade as host to adaptive interventions is only one
of many possibilities engendered by the proliferation of technology. As tech-
nology continues to evolve, it will give rise to new roles for the host structure.
However, advancements may not necessarily equate only to an increase in
importance of the host structure’s role in adaptive reuse. In fact, quite the
contrary. Developments such as robotic processes within the built envelope

have reduced the need for the host structure to take on additional roles. Slow
Furl, a research project by CITA of the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, is
one such responsive interior textile. Developed as a prototype in 2008, the
textile is intended to react with the actions of the inhabitant. In response to
human movements, the robotic membrane slowly reveals its many folds
with quasi-imperceptible moves. “Rather than fixing the digital in a respon-
sive relationship to the user, where every call defines a reply, Slow Furl finds
its temporality outside the immediately animate.”7 As an intervention, Slow
Furl relies only upon itself, and the host structure, once again, is relegated
to spectator. (fig. 14)
Installation art in sited conditions reveals to us an ideal relationship of host
to intervention in which one informs the other. The art intervention, as op-
posed to the architectural intervention, has the advantage of a certain au-
tonomy: without the demands of function and permanence, it indulges in
the pure principle derived from the context. In the built environment, where
the accommodation of function necessitates compromise, the art installa-
tion serves as a standard in adaptive reuse for an ideal union of host and
intervention.
1 Installation Art, http://www.tate.org.uk/learn/online-resources/glossary/i/installation-art (accessed

January 13, 2016). 2 Sol LeWitt: A Drawing Retrospective, http://www.massmoca.org/lewitt/wall-
drawing.php?id=51 (accessed January 13, 2016). 3 Dan Flavin, http://www.guggenheim.org/new-
york/collections/collection-online/artists/bios/704 (accessed January 13, 2016). 4 Alanna Miller,
“From the Records of MoMA PS1: The 40th Anniversary of the Brooklyn Bridge Event,” INSIDE/OUT
Collection, Library and Archives, MOMA PS1, June 27, 2011. 5 Caroline Bos and Ben van Berkel,
“After Image,” in Design Models, 2006 (from UN Studio website). 6 Lois Ascher, “Krzysztof Wod-
iczko: Public Space: Commodity or Culture,” in David Michalski, ed., Streetnotes 20: URBAN FEEL,
Spring 2010, http://people.lib.ucdavis.edu/%7Edavidm/xcpUrbanFeel/ascher.html (accessed January 15,
2015). 7 Slow Furl. http://cita.karch.dk/Menu/Research+Projects/Behaving+Architectures/Slow+-
Furl+(2008) (accessed January 15, 2016).
189
Interventions extend the capabilities of the host structure. New spatial ex-
perience is inserted into the envelope of the shell-type host structure as
interior retrofit. Sited installations engage the host structure in a temporary
transformation. Addition, as another and different type of intervention, ex-
pands the host structure through a change in size or scope. With a long
history, addition as architectural practice has historically been overlooked. In
reality, many of the great works of history are products of additions over
time. St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican, as we know it today, is an accretion
of additions by many different architects, beginning with Bramante in 1506
to Michelangelo Buonarroti in 1564, Carlo Maderno in 1612, and Gian Lorenzo
Bernini in 1667. (fig. 1)
Defined as the total of two or more amounts, addition is a quantitative pro-
cess of increase in number or degree. In mathematics, this sum is absolute,
with only one possible solution at any given time. In architecture, however,
the expansion of an existing structure through addition results in more than
an increase of space. An increase in size or scope equates to changes in
many other aspects of the host structure; the worth of the building, its prop-
erty value, its relationships within the context and its place in the continuum
of time. Its revised worth is a product of the old, the new and the many
implications of its adjusted identity.
Whole Numbers
The addition of whole numbers (positive integers and zero) in mathematics
has its equivalence in architecture as the addition of discrete volumes to an
existing host structure. These additions include single elements, from a

FIG.0: Additive and subtractive operations define adaptive reuse practice.
13
of Reuse
The Mathematics
FIG.1: The additions to St. Peter‘s Basilica, Rome.
dormer to additional stories, but also a new facade or wing. Such additions
naturally extend the spatial dimensions of their hosts. With the existing
building and its inherent structural capabilities as a starting point, additions
cantilever out from, perch on top of and wrap around their hosts in varying
configurations. They are distinct volumes that expand the confines of the
old.
The most basic outcome of additive interventions is increased square foot-
age. The roof dormer, the most common of additions, for example, extends
the head height of sloping attic spaces to create a room from otherwise
unusable space. The rooftop addition is a variant, most often on a flat roof,
in which an entire volume is added on top of the host structure. As an
age-old strategy of expansion within the limits of an established footprint,
vertical additions can significantly increase the square footage of a host
structure. Vertical additions take place at different scales from a single floor
on top of the roof to projects that increase the size of the host many times
over. Nouvel’s addition to the Lyon Opera House in Lyon, France, and Herzog
& de Meuron’s transformative addition to a 1960’s warehouse as the Elb
philharmonie in Hamburg, Germany, roughly double the existing volume of
their hosts. The scale of such additions places the relationship of old to new
into question. The classical 1831 opera house topped with a gargantuan

FIGS.2a–c: The Lyon Opera House is
doubled in size by Jean Nouvel‘s addition.
metal barrel vault roof, though still recognizable, alters the skyline of Lyon’s
city center. The serviceable industrial brick warehouse topped with an enor-
mous new ”crystal” form transforms the context of Hamburg’s working
harbor. These additions, though large, clearly delineate old and new as dis-
tinct elements of a whole form. As such, they are part of a continuum in
which buildings evolve while maintaining some semblance of their integrity.
(figs. 2a–c, 3a–b)
193
FIGS.3a–b: An industrial warehouse is
doubled in size in its new life as Herzog &
de Meuron‘s Elbphilharmonie.

FIGS.4a–c: The dome of the U.S. Customs
House in Boston, MA, is lost in the addition of
a Campanile-styled tower.
In contrast to these examples are additions of a greater magnitude that have

the potential to jeopardize the integrity of the host. Projects such as the
addition of a tower onto the 1837 U.S. Customs House in Boston, Massa-
chusetts, USA, or the 1928 International Magazine Building in New York City,
New York, USA, illustrate these ideas. A product of the Greek Revival move-
ment, the U.S. Customs House was the embodiment of American authority
through its domed temple form. The 1915 addition of a multi-story tower in
the style of the Venice Campanile, directly over the dome and obscuring it
from view, dramatically transformed the character of the landmark building.
The addition resulted in a hybrid that diluted its iconic presence. The Hearst
Tower is also an addition that transformed the 1928 six-story landmark build-
ing to a high-rise. The 46-story tower is inserted within the landmark shell
and emerges above the sixth floor in a new tectonic language. It asserts it-
self in the skyline of midtown Manhattan as an overt acknowledgment that
the value of the host structure lay only in its Art Deco facade. When the scale
of such transformations compromises the identity of the existing structure,
they are no longer additions. Rather, adaptive reuse is a pretext for develop-
ment. (figs. 4a–c, 5a–b)
Vertical additions transform the host without increasing the existing footprint.
The addition of discrete volumes in a horizontal manner instead extends the
host through an increase of the building footprint. Such additions assume
sites with lot coverage potential for new wings and/or blocks. Added vol-
umes have the potential for creating new urban relationships and for renew-
ing connections that have shifted or been reduced or destroyed over time.
195
FIGS.5a–b: The Hearst Tower addition to the facades of
the International Magazine Building asserts its presence
into the New York City skyline.
In some contexts, such as in David Chipperfield’s additions to a historic city

block on Joachimstraße in Berlin, Germany, horizontal additions can renew
areas of urban discontinuity. Sited in a war-damaged central neighborhood,
the addition of three volumes, one on the street front and two in the rear,
serves different purposes within the urban setting. The front addition com-
pletes the street facade while the rear additions, placed deep in the center
of the plot, strike a balance between re-establishing the pre-war courtyard
and responding to the post-war additions. (figs. 6a–b)

FIGS.6a–b: Urban infill additions such as
David Chipperfield‘s Joachimstrasse 11 in
Berlin are opportunities to address issues
of context.
Additions require systems of support. Where feasible, smaller-scale vertical

additions piggyback on the existing foundations of the host structure, which
can support supplementary gravity loads of up to 5 per cent. The load of
large-scale additions and wings typically exceed 5 per cent of the host’s
original design load and require supplementary structural support. For verti-
cal additions where the magnitude of the new volume is greater than the
host, such as the Hearst Tower, a new and separate structure is required.
With the exception of small additions that can cantilever from the structural
system of the host, horizontal additions, as extensions on the site, always
require a new system of structural support.
Structural systems supporting additions are most efficient when they com-
plement that of the host. Systems that utilize similar bay sizes and structur-
al grids provide an organizational continuity from the old to the new. This
continuity supports a connected flow of movement from host to addition.
Similar materials also contribute to a continuity of construction and detail
coherence. Structural systems that flow from the existing structure have an
impact on the exterior expression of an addition, allowing for the new to be
197
FIG.7: Frank Gehry’s addition to the Tower
Records Building, Boston, MA.
articulated in relation to the host. This is not to say that additions should
be made “in the style of.” Gehry’s 1987 roof addition to the Tower Records
Building in Boston, Massachusetts, USA, for example, was a groundbreaking
project of the time. Its controversial expression of cornice, roof and support
were inspired by and a response to the classical structure of its early 20th-cen-
tury brick Back Bay host. Together they formed a single dialogue of new and
old. In contrast, Coop Himmelb(l)au’s rooftop addition on Falkestrasse in
Vienna, Austria, also of the late 1980s, was a deliberate deviation from its
classical 19th-century host. Hailed as one of the first Deconstructivist proj-
ects, it used a “differentiated and differentiating constructional system,
which is a cross between a bridge and an airplane.”1 This vocabulary is an
intentional departure from the elements of load-bearing structure, both lit-
erally and figuratively. (figs. 7, 8)

FIG.8: Coop Himmelb(l)au’s rooftop
remodeling to the office at Falkestrasse,
Vienna.
FIG.9: An obsolete craneway in Amster-

dam Harbor serves as the foundations for
OTH Architecten‘s Kraanspoor building.
The host can also serve a purely structural role. This is often the case with
existing infrastructure that has lost its purpose. This vastly diverse category
may include unfinished building frames, highways, bridges, gun batteries,
defense fortifications. The Kraanspoor in Amsterdam, Netherlands, is an
example of the reuse of infrastructure made obsolete by the city’s develop-
ment. A thriving port city since the 16th century, Amsterdam made use of
the 1950s craneway in the harbor as the docking point of supertankers from
the Dutch Docking and Shipbuilding Company. With present-day shipping
commerce consisting primarily of bulk cargo and cruise ships, the craneway
was slated for demolition. Instead, it was used as the foundations of a new
lightweight office complex, placed directly on top of it. The host here serves
to support the load of the new three-story building. The support system
within the new bar building derives its order from that of the craneway below.
199
FIGS.10a–d: An unused blockhouse in
Nantes serves as the foundation of
Tetrarc’s La Fabrique île de Nantes, a new
arts and cultural space.

This association of old and new is clearly discernible in plan and in the ex-
pression on the facade. (fig. 9)
The thousands of blockhouses or pillbox wartime structures remaining in
many European cities are another category of obsolete infrastructure. As
military architecture, they are constructed of reinforced material to withstand
invasion and the force of bombs. With walls of up to 9 meters thick, their very
nature of impregnability renders these host structures nearly inconvertible.
The addition of a lightweight tower on top of a World War II blockhouse in
Nantes, France, enabled its conversion to an arts and cultural space housing
several concert halls, recording studios, offices, and public spaces. The block-
house serves as a foundation to support the addition of the tower above.
Placed directly on the roof of the blockhouse, the new tower intersects it in
an open terrace of columns en pilotis. The relationship of the host, as struc-
tural foundation, is made explicit by the expressed junction of these two
volumes at the point where the weight of the tower is transferred to the
concrete mass below. (figs. 10a–d)
Rational Numbers
Whole numbers describe a universe in singular units. Rational numbers,
those numbers that can be expressed as a fraction, instead address the
many different increments in between: 1.5, 0.111, 25.3. Where whole numbers
are analogous to discrete volumes added to the host structure, rational num-
bers offer us a view to the many nuances of additive interventions within
the host.
Projects of refurbishment or renovation add to a host structure not only
through extension but also through a process of renewal. Naturally this pro-
cess pertains most to the semi-ruin or ruin-type hosts, structures that are
incomplete. The fate of such heritage property inspired key points of the
Athens Charter of 1931 and the Venice Charter of 1964. The establishment of
a process for returning a ruin or semi-ruin to life yielded new interpretations
of anastylosis, the re-instatement of fragments to a whole. In the Athens
Charter, it is recommended that anastylosis be performed, where possible,
with recognizably new materials. The controversial points of the Venice Char-
ter further promulgate the need to distinguish between new intervention and
its existing context. These points lead to diverse interpretations of restorative
and reparative interventions through modern means.
The refurbishment of the Neues Museum in Berlin, Germany, demonstrates
both types of additions — whole and rational numbers — that together result
in a full renovation of the war-damaged ruin. The introduction of a new wing
in place of the one destroyed intervenes with a discrete volume. The renewal
of the damaged interior elements instead required many small interventions.
201
FIGS.11a–g: David Chipperfield‘s Neues Museum
addition and renovation in Berlin unite past war
wounds with present-day detailing.

203
FIGS.12a–c: Linazasoro & Sanchez‘s
conversion of the Piarist School
to the Cultural Centre of the Piarists in
Madrid.
The most noted of these interventions includes the insertion of a new stair-
case in the existing monumental entry hall and the meticulous reconstruc-
tion of the ruined surfaces, both wall and ceiling. The reconstruction of the
destroyed staircase, precisely in its original location but in modern materials
and construction, demonstrates one interpretation of the Venice Charter. The
reconstruction of the interior surfaces — the wall and ceiling — through a
painstaking mapping of the missing areas and the insertion of new material
follows a similar strategy. With these efforts, the original pre-war spatial
experience was restored. At the same time, this experience is differentiated
from the past through contemporary materials that delineate past and pres-
ent as a unified effort. (figs. 11a–g)
The Cultural Centre of the Piarists in the Lavapiés neighborhood of Madrid,
Spain, completed in 2004, is also a project born of semi-ruins. Integrating
the remains of the Piarist School of San Fernando, the Cultural Centre is, like
the Neues Museum, an ensemble of both new construction and refurbish-
ment. Founded in 1729 as the first of many Piarist schools, the complex in-
cluded a church that was partially destroyed in the Spanish Civil War. Its
renewal also included a new wing and a renovation within the bombed
church. The semi-ruined church was converted to a library with interventions

FIGS.13a–c: Past and present are woven
together through uniquely different
viewpoints at the Cultural Centre of the
Piarists (above) and the Neues Museum
(below right).
205
that included the addition of stairs, bookshelf and storage, reading rooms,
new lighting, as well as insertions of glass and wood ceiling panels into the
ruined dome. The newly added elements, detailed in a spare sensibility,
stand out as deliberate insertions that delineate past and present as distinct
efforts. (figs. 12a–c)
While both the renovated Neues Museum and the adaptation of the church
of the Piarist school embrace the remnants of war as part of the buildings’
history, their approaches for incorporating these marks through adaptive
reuse diverge. With similar additions of stairs and new ceiling and surface
treatments, both projects display a strategy for weaving the new within the
old, both within and without. At the museum, the weaving of old to new,
although with contrasting materials, is intentionally unified, resulting in a
uniform surface. At the library, the weaving deliberately juxtaposes the new
against the old, intentionally magnifying the differences as a passage of time.
As strategies for interventions, these two projects clearly demonstrate two
contrasting and viable interpretations; one darns a hole within the existing
fabric using yarn of the same color, while the other purposefully weaves with
a differently colored thread. (figs. 13a–c)
Summation
Summation, another form of addition, is a sequence of numbers totaled as
a single amount. Applied to architectural addition, it pertains to series of
related elements — stairs, walkways, ramps, corridors, steps, balconies —that
are not discrete volumes in and of themselves, but added together form a
unified intervention to a host structure. These series of interventions occur
both on the exterior and the interior, and at different scales.
FIG.14: Roberto Collovà’s unifying

intervention to the steeply sloping
street in Salemi.

FIGS.15a–c: The conversion of the
castle and fortifications in Verona to
the Museo di Castelvecchio by Carlo
Scarpa.
In a steeply sloping neighborhood in Salemi, Italy, the addition of a single

front step of a uniform material to each house along the street mitigates the
grade change from the urban front to the private domestic interior. While
each step is its own height and shape, all the added steps along the street
together form a series that constitutes a single intentional intervention of
access. In the same material and style, the steps provide a new unity on the
street. This domestic street step intervention has its equivalent at a grand
scale in the renovation and conversion of a fortification complex to a cultur-
al center in the Eisack Valley of Franzensfeste, Italy. New corridors, stairs,
207
FIGS.16a–f: Markus Scherer‘s intervention of
new elements of circulation connects the many
structures of Franzensfeste in Italy.

209
ramps were introduced to connect a sprawling set of buildings on a steeply
sloping site. Fabricated from a uniform palate of galvanized patinated steel,
this set of small interventions provides, in total, a unity to the site as a whole.
Carlo Scarpa’s conversion of the Castelvecchio castle and fortifications to a
museum, also in Italy, offers an example of such additions applied simulta-
neously to both exterior and interior. With the architectural device of the
cantilever, Scarpa introduced floating planes, small and large, all through the
museum and in the junctures to the exterior. As support for sculpture both
on the interior and the exterior, this device provides a unified gesture of
weightlessness within the heavily fortified host. (figs. 14, 15a–c, 16a–f)
Subtraction
Subtraction is the addition of negative numbers, whole or otherwise. In
adaptive reuse, it refers to the removal of a part of the host structure. This
removal can be deliberate or unintentional, the former a part of a choreo-
graphed design strategy, the latter an act of nature. Intentional subtraction
takes place for various reasons: to make room for the new through demoli-
tion, to return a host to an original form, to appropriate the host structure for
various intents, to bring an out-of-date host structure to current standards,
to create double or multiple height spaces within the host. Residential ren-
ovations often begin with a subtraction to remove layers of additions and to
bring a house back to its original state. Often preservation work also begins
with subtraction. At the Park Street Armory, Herzog & de Meuron’s work in
the heritage rooms began with delayering the many finishes, placed one on
top of the other. The complexity of this type of subtraction remains as it was
FIGS.17a–b: Cruz y Ortiz Arquitectos‘

return of the Rijksmuseum to its
original design required a subtraction
of the additions made over time.

FIGS.18a–c: RAAAF and Atelier
de Lyon’s subtractive intervention
to a Second World War bunker.
at the time of Viollet-le-Duc and his restoration projects at Vézelay and Paris.
What is authenticity? Upon what criteria should such consideration be made?
Which layer should one consider as authentic? Contemplation of this issue
is ongoing without definitive conclusions.
These same questions were at the heart of the renovation of the Rijksmu-
seum in Amsterdam, Netherlands. Premised on the19th-century design of
Pierre Cuypers, the winning proposal included a restoration to an original
layout. This process required the removal of galleries added in the 1950s and
1960s from the inner courtyards and an elaborate procedure to sink this area
below ground. This subtractive intervention allowed for the introduction of
a new atrium as part of a redesigned entrance into the museum. Further-
more, as an intervention, it embraced the Cuypers design as authentic. For
the city of Amsterdam, this embrace is a recognition that not all layers are
precious, nor do they all contribute to a building’s authenticity. While such
decisions are case-specific, at the Rijksmuseum, this approach led to a res-
toration through a subtractive intervention. (figs. 17a–b)
Subtraction as appropriation most often occurs on host buildings without
heritage designations. Such host structures are used as objects in service of
activist agenda; to persuade through political content, to reveal history, to tell
211
FIGS.19a–b: Herzog & de Meuron‘s
subtraction of the host structure‘s base
at the Caixa Forum in Madrid.

FIGS.20a–c: In Salemi, Álvaro
Siza & Roberto Collovà‘s
interventions are in response
to the earthquake that felled
the Chiesa Madre in the center
of town.
a tale. Such subtractive strategies tend towards the dramatic and include
surgical interventions and major incisions within the host structure. Without
the governance of landmark regulations, the host is bound to become tabula
rasa. Bunker 599 is a prime example of an intervention to one of hundreds of
unprotected World War II bunkers, built to defend Holland in the 1940s.
Located in Culemborg, Netherlands, the project intervenes by splitting a re-
inforced-concrete pillbox structure, removing parts of its center and exposing
the interior of a typically inaccessible military building. A long boardwalk in-
serted into the resulting fissure gives direct access to a flooded plain. This
natural reserve is part of the New Dutch Waterline, a military line of defense
used from 1815 to 1940 to flood eastern Netherlands against encroaching
invaders. The subtractive intervention here is an act of revelation to disclose
this long-time military secret. More importantly, this revelation demonstrates
the present state of a Netherlands at peace. The ironic consequence of this
subtraction was that the site, with its incision, earned it the status of Dutch
national monument. (figs. 18a–c)
The Caixa Forum in Madrid, Spain, is another example of subtraction as ap-
propriation. As a late 1890s power station without notable historic signifi-
cance, the brick shell of the host was retained as a remnant of the early in-
dustrial age in Madrid. The stone base of the building was removed in its
entirety, leaving a deliberate void at the entrance level. A feat of structural
manipulation, the new building is noted for an entry that levitates from its
site. In contrast to Bunker 599, where history played an important role, the
agenda of the subtractive intervention here was to create spectacle out of
213
the ordinary. Both cases demonstrate that host buildings rooted in history
but without the confines of landmark designation are opportunities as canvas
of daring architectural feats, with adaptive reuse as a tool. (figs. 19a–b)
Subtraction as an act of nature can be a catalyst for change. The unexpected
destruction of buildings or parts of them has repercussions that impact re-
lationships in the surrounding context. In the case of the earthquake that
severely damaged the Mother Church of Salemi, Italy, the devastation
wreaked havoc not only on the church but on the plan of the hill town. The
placement of the church at its apex reflects a long history that includes a
feudal fiefdom. The subtractive act that felled the roof and left only partial
elements of apse, subchapel and side altars created a ruin of the center of
the town. The reuse of the ruin as an urban plaza is fitting as a new heart of
town, especially in this age of secularization. The remaining elements double
as outdoor furniture while the almost invisible interventions of Siza and
Collovà, of which there are many, from the reinforced masonry to the metal
struts, attend to the structural integrity and safety of the users. (figs. 20a–c)
Absolute Value
Subtractive interventions are not necessarily reductive. As in the mathemat-
ical principle of absolute value, where the magnitude of a number is inde-
pendent of its sign, most subtractive interventions yield an eventual addition.
As a variant of subtraction, this type of intervention does not result in a re-
moval of matter in the ultimate balance. In this spirit, the Rijksmuseum
project, with its objective to restore the plan to the original 19 th-century
layout, required a subtraction but only in order to implement an addition, a
new atrium. In sum, the subtractive interventions enabled the creation of a
new entrance for both museum visitors and the public at large.
Absolute value also prevails in the extension of the library for the Max Planck
Institute for Art History, the Bibliotheca Hertziana, in Rome, Italy. Expansion
of the building, situated in a historic neighborhood above the remains of a
60 BC Roman villa, was severely limited by the many constraints of heritage
protection. With the need to work within the historic facades, the expansion
project required the intricate removal of an interior space so as to insert a
new atrium as part of the new library renovations.
Facade replacement is a unique category for the application of the absolute
value function. The introduction of a new facade through the removal and
replacement of the old is necessarily both subtractive and additive. An im-
portant intervention for the establishment of a different identity, it is an op-
portunity that requires consideration of how the new is woven into the exist-
ing. In addition to the issues of weaving into the host, the consequence of
facade interventions reverberates outside the limits of the building structures

FIG.21: Valerio Olgiati‘s whitewashing
of the Yellow House in Flims.
into the surrounding context. The impact of facade replacement is ultimate-

ly one that is positive in moving the project forward in time.
The facade replacement as an intervention is a renewal of the building skin.
As a facelift, it updates a worn and outdated host building. It can be as min-
imal as a change of color, as in the Yellow House at Flims, Switzerland. The
traditional farmhouse was transformed by a change of its iconic color to
white and by interior interventions of a similar minimalism. Together they
constitute a subtractive “whitewashing” of its agrarian associations for its
new life as a museum. (fig. 21)
In residential projects, the addition of new cladding directly over the existing
is a common practice. Removal of those added layers of cladding is, in re-
verse, a subsequent subtractive intervention. These additive and subtractive
processes are at the heart of the 185 Post Street Building in San Francisco,
California, USA. Originally built in 1908, this classically composed turn-of-
the-century facade occupies a prominent corner in the Union Square neigh-
borhood. In the 1950s, aluminum panels were introduced as a facelift that
transformed the stone-clad building to a metal-clad one. What was in vogue
in mid-century, however, was worn by the millennium. The 2008 renovation,
in turn, consisted of the removal of the 1950s aluminum panels, a restoration
of the 1908 facade and the addition of a glass skin over the restored stone.
These interventions together culminate in the addition of a curtain wall as-
sembly and an air gap that, in mitigating the temperature differential of the
interior and exterior, increased the host’s energy efficiency. The glass skin
215
FIG.22a: An outmoded aluminum skin covered FIG.22b: Koonshing Wong‘s 2008 inter-
the 1908 facade of the 185 Post Building, San vention at 185 Post Building reveals and
Francisco, CA. protects the 1908 facade.
also protects the restored stone facade, encasing and preserving it from
environmental damage. At night, the stone facade is visible behind the glass,
displayed as a jewel of this historic quarter. Through the multi-layered inter-
vention, the building is retained and preserved for the future while re-estab-
lishing urban relationships of the past. (figs. 22a–b)
The design of any facade is an opportunity to engage in the question of style.
In projects of addition, this opportunity is moreover complex due to the ex-
istence of one or more previous authors. Depending on its age and the num-
ber of previous additions, a host building may be a canvas of many different
styles. At St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, distinctive differences in the de-
tails of the various additions represent architectural styles from Renaissance
to Baroque. Despite these differences, the church may appear unified to the
layman; it is a work of one material and the styles are expressed in the lan-
guage of similar architectural elements. This fundamental condition no longer
exists; since the end of Neoclassicism, the emergence of a stylistic pluralism
has muddied the process. With the possibility of many different languages
of architectural elements, the design of the facade is now a charged opportu-
nity. As the outer skin and face of a building, it can also serve as a canvas
for acts of assimilation, historicism, or activism.
In many historic neighborhoods, zealous local preservation efforts perpetu-
ate the consistent continuation of the urban fabric, without the acknowledg-
ment of time. These attempts can result in false historicism. Gwathmey

FIGS.23a–b: Gwathmey Siegel‘s new facade at
Princeton University’s Whig Hall reinterprets the
past and its historic temple host.
Siegel’s 1974 intervention to Whig Hall at Princeton University in New Jersey,

USA, spearheads this issue. One of twin 1893 Ionic temples on campus
housing the university’s debating societies, Whig Hall suffered damage from
a 1969 fire that destroyed the interior and one of the facades of the temple.
The addition comprised an insertion into the wrapper of three remaining
facades. The new facade retains the base and cornice as a datum line for
maintaining the integrity of the temple form. But within this datum, a new
language of pure white geometric volumes emerges to expose the renovated
spaces within. In a language of modern architecture, the new facade is an
abstract composition inspired by the regulating lines of Neoclassicism. The
renovation of Whig Hall and its missing facade retains the 19th-century leg-
acy of the twin temples. At the same time, it signals a new era for the insti-
tution and the campus. As an addition resulting from a subtractive act of
nature, Whig Hall demonstrates the use of the facade as expression and a
messenger of change. (figs. 23a–b)
Since the 1970s, many facade interventions have served a similar purpose.
They are messengers of change and other messages as well. Robert Ventu-
ri’s 1976 addition to Cass Gilbert’s Allen Memorial Art Museum at Oberlin
College, Ohio, USA, is a vehicle for exploring his concept of the decorated
shed in a historic context. Daniel Libeskind uses this strategy in several
projects. At the Jewish Museum in Berlin, Germany, the facade of the addi-
tion is part of a narrative on loss and the disappearance of the Jewish people
217
during the Second World War. At the Dresden Military History Museum, the
addition expresses itself as a violent form piercing the Neoclassical host
structure. Libeskind describes the intent behind such an expression as an
“architecture [that] will engage the public in the deepest issue of how orga-
nized violence and how military history and the fate of the city are inter-
twined.”2 Messages of change, however, do not always serve ulterior mo-
tives. Chipperfield’s facade addition at Joachimstraße 11 simply expresses
a clear and forward direction in which the choice of materials, the style and
the detailing bridge the gap of years between the adjacent neighboring build-
ings. (figs. 24, 25)
While facade replacement facilitates a concrete interpretation of absolute
value, absolute value as a concept can also apply to the abstract. Bunny Lane,
an enormous industrial shed used in a residential application, illustrates such
implementation. The inside of the shed holds a traditional suburban house,
relocated and reused as a large interior element. Removed from the context
of its New Jersey neighborhood of similar homes and placed in an entirely
different scale, the house is transformed to a stand-alone object with exte-
rior facades, roof and a porch. In the vast interior, the house becomes a room,
a piece of furniture, a toy. The relocation is a subtractive act that removes

FIGS.24, 25: Venturi, Scott Brown‘s addition
to the Allen Memorial Art Museum at Oberlin
College, OH, and Daniel Libeskind‘s Jewish
Museum in Berlin are facades that serve as
messengers of change.
219
FIGS.26a–c: Adam Kalkin’s use of a relocated
house at Bunny Lane, NJ.

the house’s natural identity and permits it to take on a different role in a new
environment. (figs. 26a–c)
In a broader sense, the concept of absolute value is critical to understanding
adaptive reuse. As a practice that implements change, adaptive reuse nec-
essarily begins with demolition of some form. Its sum total effect will always
require a consideration of both subtraction and addition. As interventions,
additions of all types fundamentally provide extra space and enhanced use
in a host structure. They interface with the existing structure in a spatial in-
tersection of wall, ceiling or floor as appendages to an existing structure.
These new intersections have ripple effects on the previously established
systems of circulation and use, impacting the internal workings of the host.
They also wield an impact on their host and host context that is not always
evident and/or easily quantifiable. Applying an analysis akin to the absolute
value function serves as a tool for evaluating the ultimate impact of each
project of reuse.
221
FIGS.27a–c: From top: Residenzschloss, Dresden, by Peter
Kulka Architektur; The Hirshhorn Bubble Proposal by
Diller Scofidio + Renfro; Free University Philology Library,
Berlin, by Foster & Partners.
In such an evaluation, applying the brackets of the absolute function to a

project might be to ask some of the following questions:
+ What is the purpose of the host before the addition?

+ What is the purpose of the addition?
+ How does the purpose of the addition impact the purpose of the host
structure?
+ What is the purpose of the newly adapted project?
+ What, if any, change does the addition make on the previous patterns of
use, both within the host and its context?
+ Are the critical elements of use of the host still intact with the addition?
Together, the answers to such questions provide a whole picture based on

both new and old circumstances. They consider what is lost, gained and
ultimately altered.

Diller Scofidio + Renfro’s Hirshhorn Bubble proposal for Washington, DC,
USA, Foster & Partners’ Free University Philology Library in Berlin, Germany,
and Peter Kulka’s Residenzschloss in Dresden, Germany, are, by typology,
three projects of addition, each involving an ovoid form inserted within an
architectural void. The Hirshhorn Bubble is a proposed insertion of an inflat-
able textile room within the void of the Hirshhorn Museum. The Free Univer-
sity Philology Library is the insertion of an entire ovoid-shaped library into a
campus plan based on an ideology of open communication manifested in a
“continuous building complex organized around built and non-built zones …
along an orthogonal street system or a diagonal path system from courtyard
to courtyard.”3 The Residenzschloss Museum is a consolidation of several
royal residences by the addition of a single, connecting semi-ovoid roof.
While typologically similar in concept, the same questions applied to each
of these projects would yield entirely different answers; the same typolog-
ical design strategy of adaptive reuse would impact entirely different aspects
of each host and host context. In adaptive reuse practice, where the exis-
tence of singularities in the individual host structures constitutes the only
certainty, a pure reliance on principles derived from typology would not be
advisable. Rather, a clear understanding of the impact of each design strat-
egy is crucial to a successful adaptive reuse project. Viewing adaptive reuse
as mathematics is to adopt an objective lens in the often subjective world
of design. Albert Einstein tells us that “[p]ure mathematics is, in its way, the
poetry of logical ideas.” (figs. 27a–c)
1 Website of Coop Himmelb(l)au. http://www.coop-himmelblau.at/architecture/projects/rooftop-remod-

eling-falkestrasse (accessed January 30, 2016). 2 Richard Waite, “Libeskind Completes Redesign
of Dresden Museum of Military History,” The Architect’s Journal, October 12, 2011. 3 Candilis, Josic,
Woods, Schiedhelm, Free University Berlin (London: AA Publications,1999).
223
Mention of restoration conjures Eugène Viollet-le-Duc and his much-quoted
1875 definition “that [t]o restore a building is not to preserve it, to repair, or
rebuild … [but] to re-instate it in a condition of completeness which could
never have existed at any given time.”1 The ensuing anti-restoration senti-
ments, which subsequently led to the beginnings of the conservation move-
ment, focused in great part on Viollet-le-Duc’s reliance on conjecture. In the
face of unknown territory, without documentation of what existed before,
the speculative nature of such restoration prompted a discourse on authen-
ticity that continues, more than a century later, today. In the often overlooked
continuation of his definition, Viollet-le-Duc cautions that “[i]t is only since
the first quarter of the present century that the idea of restoring buildings of
another age has been entertained; and we are not aware that a clear defini-
tion of architectural restoration has as yet been given. Perhaps it may be as
well to endeavour at the outset to gain an exact notion of what we under-
stand, or ought to understand, by a restoration …”2 Writing in 1875, Vio-
llet-le-Duc would have encountered the 1832 definition of restoration in the
writings of his countryman and Secretary of the Académie des Beaux-Art,
Quatremère de Quincy, equating restoration generally to “the re-establish-
ment of parts of a building more or less damaged …“3 He would also have
been acquainted with the advocacy of Ludovic Vitet and Prosper Mérimée,
who both held the position of Inspector General of the Commission des mon-
uments historiques, for a critical approach to restoration based on architec-
tural surveys and measured drawings. But in the latter half of the 19th century,
such information was scant, as this type of documentation was the product
of laborious and intensive tasks. (figs. 1a–b)
In the first quarter of the 21st century, restoration and conservation have
dramatically evolved, especially through technology and the many tools it has

FIG.0: Cabeza inacabada de Nefertiti by Miguel Hermoso Cuesta.
14
Distant Frontier
A New and
FIGS.1a–b: The engravings and writings of
Serlio and Palladio are examples of resources
available in the 19th century.
engendered. With changed methods, the notion of what we preserve and how
we do it has greatly expanded since the late 19th century. Together, the means
and the mind-set of our time redefine the acts of preservation.
Adaptive reuse, the legacy of these debates on restoration and conservation,
has also evolved since the latter half of the 20th century, when key legislation
such as the Venice Charter of 1964 first addressed the need for “some so-
cially useful purpose” in the conservation of monuments. If the 20th century
established an adaptive reuse practice based on alterations that bestow new
use within the built existing environment, today we confront the possibilities
of an adaptive reuse practice at a new frontier. (figs. 2a–b)
Restoration’s first opponents focused on the confines of the era and the
impossibility of “this kind of forgery.” 4 William Morris stated in his 1887
Manifesto that in this respect, “knowledge failed the builders.”5 By the 1920s,
the advances of the 20th century presaged a metamorphosis as expressed
by French poet and philosopher Paul Valéry: “Our fine arts were developed,
their types and uses were established, in times very different from the pres-
ent, by men whose power of action upon things was insignificant in com-
parison with ours. But the amazing growth of our techniques, the adaptabil-
ity and precision they have attained, the ideas and habits they are creating,

FIGS.2a–b: Thermography and augmented reality are
examples of the many new means enabled by
today’s technology for restoration, duplication and
visualization.
make it a certainty that profound changes are impending in the ancient craft
of the Beautiful … We must expect great innovations to transform the entire
technique of the arts, thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps
even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art.”6 These
sentiments are entirely applicable today, where the innovations of the late
20th and the early 21st centuries have led to unprecedented developments
affecting much of modern life. In conservation and adaptive reuse, complete-
ly altered building construction practices expand the limits of practice. The
227
FIGS.3a–b: The UNESCO heritage site of
Hallstatt in Austria, and its duplicate in
Luoyang, China.
technological advances of the recent decades have indeed transformed not

only the art but also the notion of art. In adaptive reuse, this manifests itself
physically through innovative construction means and conceptually through
the interpretation of the field in new realms. If early conservation resulted
from imperfect means such as those defined by Quatremère de Quincy, in
which “it suffices for one to know some fragments of columns, entablature
and capitals of columns of a Greek architecture to rediscover at least the
order of the temple …,”7 then what are the implications of the new tools and
methodologies that enable a more perfect means, informed by precise and
readily available information?
In “The Lamp of Memory,” John Ruskin asked: “What copying can there be
of surfaces that have been worn half an inch down? The whole finish of the
work was in the half inch that is gone …”8 In the 19th century of Morris and
Ruskin, the knowledge of a structure required for its replication was derived
primarily from publications such as those of Vitruvius, Serlio, Palladio and, in
the late 18th century, Stuart and Revett. These books documented works of
antiquity and perpetuated Classical ideals. Neoclassical works of architects
such as Robert Adam, William Chambers and John Soane, by no means
replications, also reflect this influence. Today, technology such as digitization,
3D laser and infared radiation expands the possibilities of replication far
beyond the inspiration of period pattern books. A wealth of new and smart
tools have emerged for building scans, materials diagnostics, physio-me-
chanical and non-invasive testing, surveying and general heritage science.
Digital reconstructions are based in three-dimensional measurements, scan-
ning and modeling. There is now a very real potential for producing full and
accurate copies of existing objects and structures. Today the knowledge that
”failed” Morris’ stone chiseling builders exists.
In 1997, the Austrian town of Hallstatt, an ancient salt mining and production
town in an extraordinary Alpine setting, received UNESCO World Heritage

FIGS.4a–c: Housing blocks on Boulevard
Haussmann in Paris serve as the mold for the
cast facade of Édouard François’ Fouquet‘s
Barrière Hotel.
designation as a “cultural landscape [that] has retained a degree of authen-

ticity in nature and society.”9 In 2012, a duplication of Hallstatt opened in
Luoyang, China, as a housing development. In 2006, several buildings in an
urban block of Paris known as Triangle d’Or were renovated as Fouquet’s
Barrière Hotel. The upgrade of the building facades, including one from the
1970s, constituted a major part of this project. Referencing a 19 th-century
vision of Paris, a new concrete facade in the form of a molded casting that
replicated nearby Haussmannian facades was directly applied to the existing
structure. New apertures were subsequently placed within these duplicated
concrete facades, dictated by the interior functions and unrelated to those
of the Haussmann duplicates. In 2012, artist Do Ho Suh reconstructed the
house in which he lived as a student in Providence, Rhode Island, USA, at full
scale and in silk. Replicated to the minutiae, this ghostly translucent house
229
FIG.5: Home Within Home by sculptor Do Ho Suh
recreates his temporary home in Providence, RI,
in silk and at full scale.
floats in different galleries, including the Museum of Modern and Contempo-

rary Art in Seoul, Korea. Through the new possibilities of technology, these
21st-century projects demonstrate and thereby redefine the ability to replicate
existing structures with unerring accuracy. (figs. 3a–b, 4a–c, 5)
The matter of authenticity, central to the 19th-century controversy to ”restore”
damaged French monuments to their earlier and whole existence, does not
exist in these examples. The replications are not attempts at preserving a
physical object or structure. They embrace Walter Benjamin’s belief that “[t]he
presence of the original is the prerequisite to the concept of authenticity,”10
and thus the clear absence of the original in these examples already negates
all such claims. Instead, the replicated structures exist as new structures
through the reuse of the existing ones as symbols. They gain a new ”aura”11
through such reuse. In China, where knock-offs are the norm, the aura of the
replicated village lies in Hallstatt’s authenticity as a UNESCO site; in the 8th
arrondissement of Paris, the hotel’s aura is established through a connection
to the Haussmannian past in a facade that acts as a physical demonstration
of time, past and present; in the galleries, the aura of the house lies in the
act of recall. These replications embrace the sentiments of Viollet-le-Duc in
creating a new state of “completeness which could never have existed at
any given time.” Benjamin speaks of mechanical reproduction as “the desire
of contemporary masses to bring things ’closer’ spatially and humanly.”12 In
reproducing an ideal of an existing structure rather than the structure itself,

FIGS.6a–b: The residence of an SS commandant
at Kamp Westerbork, transformed to a museum and
education center.
these projects, through new use, extend the metaphysical distance between
what was and what is.
In 2015, the former residence of the SS commander at Kamp Westerbork, a
former Nazi concentration camp in the Netherlands and since declared a
national monument, was converted to an educational center. This conversion
was achieved by encapsulating the clapboard house within an inhabitable glass
box, as both an act of preservation and of reuse. Objectified within a colossal,
climate-controlled vitrine, the residence is preserved in situ and in perpetuity.
In contrast to the projects of replication, the original exists in this project,
fulfilling Benjamin’s prerequisite for authenticity. Yet it remains imprisoned
in time, serving a symbolic life sentence as a witness to history. While not
by any means a replication, this type of preservation, made possible by new
notions of art, also detaches an original from the past. (figs. 6a–b)
Distance is at the heart of another strategy for heritage preservation: trans-
location, the process of moving a structure from one location to another. An
age-old strategy, translocation consists of lifting a structure and transferring
it onto a movable platform. With low-tech means such as wood cribbing and
jacks, structures have been relocated for thousands of years.13 Most often,
this process is a last-resort measure of protection when a structure is phys-
ically threatened in its original site. Some known examples are: the Marble
Arch in London, Great Britain, moved in 1851 from the edge of Buckingham
Palace to Hyde Park due to the palace’s expansion; and the 1999 move of
231
FIGS.7a–b: The translocation of the Cape
Hatteras Lighthouse in North Carolina.
the seven historic structures of the 1870 Cape Hatteras Lighthouse & Station
in North Carolina, USA , 885 meters from the original site, due to the impact
of shoreline erosion on their foundations. An alternate method of transloca-
tion transports disassembled structures, rather than whole ones, that are
reassembled on their new sites. This method was used with moves such as
that of the 1244 BC Abu Simbel complex in southern Egypt. The temple was
cut into pieces and transported higher up the bank of the Nile River to save
it from the imminent inundation caused by the construction of the Aswan
Dam. In these examples, translocation is an act of preservation that intro-
duces a physical distance between the original and the moved structure.
(figs. 7a–b, 8a–b)
Enhanced means of construction today permit translocation of not only a
single building but also of high-rises and large structures, while enhanced
modes of transportation permit translocation from afar. With such newfound
potential, the use of translocation as a strategy has expanded beyond heri-
tage protection. In 1968, John Rennie’s 1831 London Bridge was deemed
structurally insufficient to support the demands of the future and auctioned
off to the highest bidder, Robert McCulloch. An entrepreneur, McCullough
founded the town of Lake Havasu City, Arizona, USA , in 1963 out of 67.3 square
kilometers of desert. With great hopes that the historic bridge would lend a
validity to this newly founded town, the bridge was transported in pieces,
reassembled, reconstructed on ground and connected to the lake through a
dredged canal. In its transatlantic relocation, London Bridge was transformed
from infrastructure to a means for legitimacy. In 1997, the 18th-century Yin Yu
Tang House, a relocated late Qing Dynasty merchant residence from south-
western China, was disassembled and transported in pieces to the USA. Its
relocation to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts, as a

FIGS.8a–b: The translocation of the
Abu Simbel complex in Egypt.
233
FIGS.9a–b: The 1831 London Bridge in its
original location in London and in its new
location at Lake Havasu in Arizona.
permanent cultural exhibit, transformed it from an abandoned domestic

structure to museum object. (figs. 9a–b, 10)
With present-day means and methods such processes, once unimaginable,
unleash a new breed of actions in the name of preservation. The reuse of
the Yin Yu Tang as both exhibit and object, the reuse of London Bridge as
pedigree, the reuse of a Haussmann facade as “wallpaper,” the reuse of a
house as memory, the use of a house as witness — these are transforma-
tions in space and time. How do we classify such work? Is it preservation?
Is it restoration? Is it reuse? How do we justify such acts? What are we
preserving? What of authenticity? How do we determine when extraordinary
means are required and justify the enormous expense involved? What are
the ethics in this new frontier?

FIG.10: The Yin Yu Tang House within its
new context of the Peabody Essex Museum,
Salem, MA.
While qualification of such recent endeavors are difficult to place within the
context of history, as new directions do they in fact parallel developments
in preservation practices since the latter half of the 20th century? Since the
seminal adoption of the Venice Charter in 1964, the definition of heritage has
expanded to include much more than monuments. The United Nations Edu-
cational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO ), for example, whose
mission since its inception in 1945 is “in building intercultural understanding
through protection of heritage,” 14 has expanded its interpretations of this
heritage. Today, UNESCO protection includes everything from “our cherished
historic monuments and museums … to traditional practices and contem-
porary art forms” but also “intangible and underwater heritage, museum
collections, oral traditions and other forms of heritage …”15 Recent interpre-
tations of conservation from around the world reflect similar change: ICO-
MOS New Zealand Charter’s 2010 definition that “[t]he purpose of conser-
vation is to care for places of cultural heritage value”; the Burra Charter’s
2013 definition that “Conservation means all the processes of looking after
a place so as to retain its cultural significance”; INTACH’s (Indian National
Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage) 2016 Charter that “[t]he objective of
conservation is to maintain the significance of the architectural heritage or
site. Significance is constituted in both the tangible and intangible forms.”
In such a broadened arena of definition lies the possibility of novel inter
pretations.
As in artist Do Ho Suh’s re-creation of physical domestic structures in ephem-
eral materials, artist Edoardo Tresoldi has re-created a similar object but
235
FIG.11: Artist Edoardo Tresoldi recreates in wire a full-scale
interpretation of the 11th-century basilica that once stood
on the site of Santa Maria di Siponto, Foggia.
ithin an archaeological site in Apulia, Italy. Constructed from seven tons of

w
wire mesh and placed directly above its archaeological remains, the artist’s
installation is an interpretation of an 11th-century Paleo-Christian basilica that
once stood upon the site of Santa Maria Maggiore di Siponto.16 A conjecture,
albeit with detailed architectural elements such as columns and arches,
Tresoldi’s reconstruction in insubstantial material has been likened to “a ho-
logram projected onto the site.”17 Apropos of conjecture, the wire mesh
wields an ethereal presence that is almost invisible from a distance. In con-
trast to Viollet-le-Duc’s full reconstruction of Carcassonne with similarly scant
remaining evidence, Tresoldi’s concept and choice of materials resurrect the
past lightly as a distant reinterpretation. Supported by the Minister of Culture
with the objective to raise awareness of Siponto’s significance as a Roman
colony and port from 194 BC, this re-creation of the basilica has revived an
interest in this part of Foggia’s history. (fig. 11)
In contrast is the ”reconstruction,” currently in fabrication, of a Roman tri-
umphal arch from Palmyra, Syria, that was destroyed in 2015 by ISIS militants.
In the marble quarries of Carrara, Italy, a full-scale 120-ton replica is in the
process of being carved out of Egyptian marble from a 3-D digital model
generated from photos taken over the years. Intended for an installation in
London demonstrating such reconstruction as propaganda, this model rein-
forces the idea of the Institute of Digital Archaeology that”[e]very time we
resurrect from the rubble one of these monuments, it undercuts the mes-

FIGS.12a–b: The city of Palmyra in Syria,
including the Marble Arch, prior to destruction
by ISIS.
sage of fear and ignorance that these people are trying to spread.”18 With
the 2016 ouster of the ISIS militants from Palmyra, Syria, there is speculation
of placing the duplicate onto the actual site of the destroyed arch. In com-
parison to Tresoldi’s installation at the Santa Maria Maggiore di Siponto, the
installation of the replicated arch in its original location and material reawak-
ens questions of authenticity. How does technologically enabled precision
change this ongoing debate? Does the political urgency at Palmyra justify a
reproduction of destroyed heritage? What is its significance as a copy on the
original site? Would the replica serve a new use as a symbol of fortitude and
resilience in the face of terrorism? (figs. 12a–b)
237
FIG.13
In the wake of ISIS’ destruction at Palmyra, cultural organizations now en-

gage in prophylactic documentation of ancient sites in threatened locations.
In such information and its inherent potential lies a promise of resurrection.
What are the implications in the greater world? In the era of Internet activism,
artists recently visiting the Neues Museum in Berlin, Germany, scanned the
bust of Nefertiti, in secret, using mobile devices. The release of these files
on the Internet under a Creative Commons license enables anyone to down-
load and 3D-print accurate copies of the head of Egyptian Pharoah Akhenat-
en’s royal wife. Is such action the realization of Benjamin’s ”masses” “over-
coming the uniqueness of every reality by accepting its reproduction”19? Are
these reproductions that “substitute plurality of copies for a unique exis-
tence” and promote a “liquidation of the traditional value of the cultural
heritage”20? Or is this trend akin to an iteration of the flowering of the Roman
world between the 1st and the 3rd centuries AD that witnessed a wholesale
replication of Greek sculpture from 500 years earlier? Replication in turn is
a product of a variety of approaches, as many Roman sculptures were “pure-
ly Roman” while others were ”carefully measured, exact copies or variants
of Greek prototypes …”21 Millennia later, the unabashed replication of Greek
culture and beauty “often provide our primary visual evidence of masterpiec-
es …”22 (fig. 13)
At a time when people inhabit not only physical but virtual spaces in their
everyday lives, these new possibilities of replication in the early 21st century

may well in the near future become virtual ones, where distances between
the original work and the replication become physically nearer and meta-
physically farther apart. Prompted by events in the world today, the ques-
tions of authenticity, and ultimately authority, once raised and responded to
in the mid- to late 19th century, are resurfacing in a new dialogue. Technology
complicates the debate with the existence of the knowledge that ”failed”
Morris’ builders. We now stand at the edge of a new frontier. New steps
forward are full of potential but also grave implications.
1 Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, On Restoration (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Low and Searle, 1875),
p. 9. 2 Ibid. 3 Quatremère de Quincy, Dictionnaire Historique d’Architecture (Paris: Librairie
d’Adrien Le Clere, 1832). 4 William Morris, “The Manifesto,” SPAB Society for the Protection of
Ancient Buildings, 1887, from SPAB website, https://www.spab.org.uk/what-is-spab-/the-manifesto/
(accessed March 13, 2016). 5 Ibid. 6 Paul Valéry, “La conquête de l’ubiquité, Une édition élec-
tronique réalisée à partir du texte de Paul Valéry, « La conquête de l’ubiquité » (1928)”, in Œuvres, tome
II, Pièces sur l’art, Nrf, Gallimard, Bibl. de la Pléiade, 1960, pp. 1283–1287. 7 “Restauration. On sait
qu’il suffit très-souvent de quelques framens de colonnes, d’entablemens et de chapiteaux d’une ar-
chitecture grecque, pour retrouver du moins l’ensemble d’une ordonnance de temple.” Quatremère de
Quincy, Dictionnaire Historique d’Architecture (Paris: Librairie d’Adrien Le Clere, 1832), English transla-
tion by Veronica Dewey. 8 John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture (Kent: George Allen, 1889),
p. 195. 9 Hallstatt-Dachstein/ Salzkammergut Cultural Landscape, UNESCO website, http://whc.
unesco.org/en/list/806 (accessed April 7, 2016). 10 Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age
of Mechanical Reproduction,” (1936) in Hannah Arendt, ed., Illuminations, (New York, NY: Schocken
Books, 1969), p. 222. 11 Walter Benjamin in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduc-
tion” defines aura as “uniqueness.” Other definitions include “distinctive quality” or “force emanating
from somebody or something.” 12 Benjamin, p. 223. 13 Definition of “relocation” from “The
Appleton Charter for the Protection and Enhancement of the Built Environment”, ICOMOS Canada,
August 1983. 14 UNESCO website, http://en.unesco.org/about-us/introducing-unesco (accessed
November 4, 2016). 15 Ibid. 16 Paolo Conti, “Siponto: con la rete metallica ricostruita basilica
del XII secolo,” Corriere della Sera, March 12, 2016. 17 “A Significant Wow Factor: Airy Resurrection
of an Ancient Basilica,” Detail Blog, http://www.detail-online.com/blog-article/a-signifcant-wow-factor-airy-
resurrection-of-an-ancient-basilica-27317/ (accessed April 14, 2016). 18 Stephen Farrell, “If All Else
Fails, 3D Models and Robots Might Rebuild Palmyra,” The New York Times, March 28, 2016. 19 Ben-
jamin, p. 223. 20 Benjamin, p. 221. 21 Department of Greek and Roman Art, “Roman Copies
of Greek Statues,” in Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History (New York, NY: The Metropolitan Museum of Art,
2000–), http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/rogr/hd_rogr.htm (accessed October 2002). 22 Ibid.
239
What is time-honored at the edge of a new frontier? Innumerable publica-
tions through history address the principles of architecture from the Ten
Books of Vitruvius and of Alberti to the Four of Palladio, from Ruskin’s Seven
Lamps and Tschumi’s Six Concepts to Le Corbusier’s Five Points, from
Durand’s systematization to Frank Lloyd Wright’s organic system, from L ouis
Sullivan’s Tall to Rem Koolhaas’ S, M, L, XL. They provide era-specific view-
1
points on the design principles of buildings. What of adaptive reuse, under-

stood very broadly as design interventions within the existing built environ-
ment? Do the principles that guide the creation of new form also guide the
revision of such form in another iteration in time? Are the principles of the
host structure those of the intervention?
An intervention such as the transformation of the craneway to the Kraanspoor
Building in Amsterdam, Netherlands, demonstrates a visible adherence to
the principles of the host structure. By contrast, the addition and subtraction
at the Caixa Forum in Madrid, Spain, march to the “beat of a drummer”2
other than its industrial host shell. Similarly, the insertion of a folded plat-
form roof into the Moritzburg castle ruin in Halle, Germany, introduces an
entirely new structural system for its conversion to museum. And the wo-
ven interior interventions to a brick abattoir for its conversion to the Cinete-
ca Matadero in Madrid, Spain, a cinema and film archive, are instead based
on the architect’s memory of times past. Although conditioned by their
context, these interventions are, in fact, often the products of new agenda.
If adaptive reuse projects are by no means constrained by an adherence to
the principles of their host, what governs the reuse of existing structures?
(figs. 1, 2, 3, 4)
In Book III of De Architectura, Vitruvius speaks of harmony through the idea
of symmetry, the principle of the day. In comparing the temple to the human

Second Violin
15
FIG.1: Kraanspoor Building, Amsterdam, FIG.2: Caixa Forum, Madrid, by Herzog & de
by OTH Architecten. Meuron.
FIG.3: Moritzburg Art Museum, Halle, by Nieto FIG.4: Cineteca Matadero, Madrid, by
Sobejano Arquitectos. Churtichaga + Quadra-Salcedo Arquitectos.
body he speaks archetypically through the most sacred building type of his
time. This analogy of building to body probes the relationship of parts — be
it building parts or body parts — in that “there ought to be the greatest har-
mony in the [symmetrical] relations of the different parts to the general
magnitude of the whole” as without such “there can be no principles …”3
Within the framework of such an analogy, adaptive reuse as subtractions,
additions, facade interventions and insertions into a host structure equates
to a medical intervention — surgery, prosthetic, skin graft, organ transplants.
These are interventions that invariably change the harmonious relationships
of the original whole. (fig.5)
With the present-day implications of financial and legal liability, modern med-
icine and its interventions often prescribe to a mechanistic philosophy 4 as if
“the body was a machine that could be fixed.”5 Within this sense of efficien-
cy and efficacy, if an organ failed it would be removed and replaced through
transplant; if part of the skin were destroyed a new piece would be grafted
onto the body; if the hip broke a new joint would be inserted. Analogously,
within an existing structure, if an elevator broke, it would be removed and

FIG.5: Illustration in the edition of
Vitruvius‘ De Architectura by Cesare
Cesariano (“Vitruvian Man”), c. 1521.
replaced; a deteriorating facade would be replaced with a new one; and a

need for space might result in a building addition. In adaptive reuse, this
medical approach provides a clear logic that accounts for projects of day-to-
day refurbishment, renovation and renewal. Application of such logic, how-
ever, might, in the guise of efficiency, sanction the division of a large un-
derused building into small spaces such as in the church-condo conversion.
But this pragmatic logic alone would not account for the loss of the church’s
defining monumentality.
Vitalism, as opposed to mechanism, also has a history in medical philosophy
as “the theory that the origin and phenomena of life are dependent on a
force or principle distinct from purely chemical or physical forces.”6 Now
discounted by modern medicine, this approach assumed the existence of a
vital life force such as Hippocrates’ Four Humors. “For vitalists, the body was
not a machine. They believed that life had something special about it that
science could never duplicate.”7 Adaptive reuse, seen through this view of
medicine, acknowledges the existence in a building of some anima that must
be respected. It is a logic that recognizes a vital type of life within an existing
243
FIG.6: Les quatre complexions de l’homme
(“The Four Temperaments”), Charles Le Brun,
c. 1674.
structure distinct from that which pertains purely to its operation. In this view,
a conversion of a 30.5-meter-high church interior through its division into six
levels of condominiums would result in the loss of its anima. Such a view
unites exemplary works of adaptive reuse that capture the essence of their
host buildings while introducing the new within the existing: for example, the
incorporation of water in Scarpa’s Fondazione Querini Stampalia in Venice,
Italy; the embrace of war wounds in Chipperfield’s Neues Museum in Berlin,
Germany; and the modesty of new forms within the archaeological presence
of time in Fehn’s Hedmark Museum in Hamar, Norway. Together, these
two opposing approaches to medicine — mechanism and vitalism — viewed
through Vitruvius’ analogy of building to body, yield an understanding of
adaptive reuse as a practice of quotidian change and of poetic intervention.
(figs. 6, 7, 8, 9)
Applied to the 1931 James Whale film Frankenstein, these two contrasting
views yield an understanding of the creature as a mechanical success but a
failure as a man. A personal phantasmagoric vision, the experiment was less
of science than of ambition. The true intentions of Dr. Frankenstein, as an
architect of life reused, are revealed during the drama of a thunderstorm in
which Frankenstein proclaims: “I created it … now I know what it feels like
to be God.” While this is Hollywood at its best, in the analogy of building to
body, the depiction of Dr. Frankenstein holds similarities to literature’s fre-
quent portrayals of the architect as self-interested. If self-interest and blind
ambition account for the creature’s ultimate failure, how does one avoid the
pitfalls of the Frankenstein Syndrome? How must one approach the second
act of a creation’s existence?
In modern-day performance, the second violin describes a group of 14 to 16
musicians that make up the strings section of an orchestra. As musicians,

FIG.7: Fondazione Querini Stampalia, FIG.8: Hedmark Museum, Hamar,
Venice, by Carlo Scarpa. by Sverre Fehn.
FIG.9: Neues Museum, Berlin, by David Chipperfield.
245
second violins are equally skilled as first violins but play separate and differ-
ent parts of the score. The first violins play the melody and the second violins
play to support the melody through harmonic and rhythmic parts. “If truth
be known, a lot of what is required of the second violins is difficult, even at
times treacherous! They often have to play rapid intricate rhythms on the
lower strings, which is difficult and tiring, and harmonies sometimes create
awkward passages. They also have to play syncopated and other very diffi-
cult rhythms underneath the soaring melodies of the first violins.“ 8 But a
melody by itself remains simply that — whereas an opus is always the prod-
uct of both sections of musicians blending seamlessly as one.
The practice of adaptive reuse is much like playing the second violin to the
melody of the host building. It is a song of redaction in which the minor keys
humbly and sweetly negotiate between existing context and new content.
1 The books referred to are: Vitruvius, De architectura; Leon Battista Alberti, De re aedificatoria; Andrea
Palladio, I quattro libri dell’architettura; John Ruskin, “The Seven Lamps of Architecture,” in The Stones
of Venice; Bernard Tschumi, “Six Concepts,” in Architecture and Disjunction; Le Corbusier, Vers une
architecture; J. N. Durand, Précis des leçons d’architecture données à l’Ecole polytechnique; Frank Lloyd
Wright, The Natural House; Louis H. Sullivan, The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered; O.M.A.,
Rem Koolhaas and Bruce Mau, S, M, L, XL. 2 Refers to an expression found in Henry David Tho-
reau’s Walden. 3 Vitruvius (transl. Morris Hicky Morgan), The Ten Books on Architecture (New York,
NY: Dover Publications, Inc., 1960), p. 72. 4 The Oxford English Dictionary defines ‘mechanism’ as
“The doctrine that all natural phenomena, including life and thought, allow mechanical explanation by
physics and chemistry.” http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/mecha-
nism#mechanism__8 (accessed April 29, 2016). 5 Victoria Sweet, God’s Hotel (New York, NY: River
head Books, 2012), p. 112. 6 Oxford English Dictionary (accessed April 29, 2016). 7 Sweet,
p.
112. 8 Jennifer Jones, Assistant Concertmaster of the Nova Scotia Symphony. https://symphony-
novascotia.ca/faqs/symphony-101/whats-the-difference-between-first-violins-and-second-violins/
(accessed April 20, 2016).

Illustration Credits
In cases where illustrations and the rights to reproduce them were available via internet websites, the
crediting follows the indications provided by the respective website, accepting a wide range of formats
and limiting adaptations for consistency to a reasonable minimum.
Cover Image
Photographer: Liliane Wong
Chapter 00
Fig. 0_Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Chapter 01
Fig. 0_United Archives GmbH/Alamy Fig. 1a_Noclip (at English Wikipedia, transferred from en.wikipe-
dia to Wikimedia Commons), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons Fig.1b_Photographer: Paul
Taylor, Flickr Fig. 2_Toni Castillo Quero (Flickr: [1]) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (via Wikimedia Commons)] Fig. 3_By
Benh (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.
org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5)], via Wikimedia
Commons Fig. 4_© 2016 Estate of Gordon Matta-Clark/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York Fig.5_
Ungaroo—Udo Ungar (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via
Wikimedia Commons Fig. 6a_y Jleon (English Wikipedia) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 6b_Andrew Ellicott, revised from Pierre (Peter) Charles L’Enfant; Thackara & Vallance sc.,
Philadelphia 1792—Library of Congress, Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.
php?curid=1519774 Figs. 7, 8_Diagrams by Liliane Wong Fig. 9_http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/
File:Kette_und_Schu%C3%9F.jpg Figs. 10a, c_Courtesy of Zaha Hadid Architects Fig. 10b_http://
www.geographicus.com/mm5/cartographers/sduk.txt [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Fig. 11a–b_Photographer: Plusea, (from 2015 E-textile Swatch Exchange), Flickr Fig. 12_Hans A. Rosbach
(Own work), CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4567317 Figs. 13a–b,
15_Diagrams by Yue Zhang Fig. 14_Ibagli (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Chapter 02
Fig. 0_© V. Korostyshevskiy Figs. 1a–i_[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2_Diagram by
Yue Zhang Fig. 3a_Jensensderivative work: Ptyx (talk)—Portico_Octavia_Rome.jpg, Public Domain,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10308745 Fig. 3b_[Public domain], via Wikimedia
Commons Fig. 4a_J.B. (Jean Baptiste?) Guibert—postcard of old engraving, scanned by Robert Sche-
diwy, Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11470312 Fig. 4b_Paul-louis
de la société MEROPS-Photo http://merops-photo.com (Own work) Paul-Louis FERRANDEZ http://
merops-photo.com, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18456487 Fig. 5a_
Unknown—from the Nordisk familjebok (1916), band 23, artikeln “Rom” [1], upload to Swedish wikipe-
dia 23.10.2003 by Den fjättrade ankan, Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?cu-
rid=1326053 Fig. 5b_Public domain Fig. 6_Bundeswehr-Fotos Wir.Dienen.Deutschland. (Flickr:
Militärhistorisches Museum Dresden) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via
Wikimedia Commons Fig. 7_Diagram by Yue Zhang Fig. 8a_JN_Sylvestre 1847–1926—Historia
No121, Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8890011 Fig. 8b_Photo by
Mirrorpix for Alamy Fig. 9a_Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47621633 Fig. 9b_
Isabella Lynn Lee (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wiki-
media Commons Fig. 10_Paul Mannix [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via
Wikimedia Commons Fig. 11_Achates (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licens-
es/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 12a_Louis Thümling (19th century: http://d-nb.info/
gnd/14032366X) nach Hermann Krone (1827–1916)—http://www.schmidt-auktionen.de/12d_
artikel_details.php?nr=16&mode=k&knr=177&kuenstler=2631, Public domain, https://commons.wiki-
media.org/w/index.php?curid=9103184 Fig. 12b_© Ad Meskens/Wikimedia Commons Fig. 13_Bob
Jagendorf from Manalapan, NJ, USA (A Day To Remember Uploaded by Trycatch) [CC BY 2.0 (http://
creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 14a_Photographer: Andy, Flickr
Fig. 14b_Arland B. Musser—United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of National Archives
and Records Administration, College Park, Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.
php?curid=430483 Fig. 14c_Mstyslav Chernov (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.
org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
247
Chapter 03
Fig. 0_Public domain Fig. 1_Andrew Balet (Own work) [CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/
licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2_Photographer: Reizergerin, Flickr Fig. 3_[Public
domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 4a_User:Jensens (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia
Commons Fig. 4b_Stian Haklev w:en:user:Houshuang (Own work (own photo)), [Public domain], via
Wikimedia Commons Figs. 5a–b_Public domain Fig. 5c_Guillaume Speurt from Vilnius, Lithuania (The
Old Town market square of Warsaw) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via
Wikimedia Commons Fig. 6a_Warburg (Own work) [Public domain or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creative-
commons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 6b_© Raimond Spekking / CC BY-SA
3.0, via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 7_Photographer: Bert Kaufmann, Flickr Fig. 8a_Udey Ismail (Flickr:
Hallstatt town, Austria) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 8b_Hanno Böck (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 9_Diagram by Minhee Kim Fig. 10_[Public domain], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 11a_August Mau [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 11b_[Public domain], via
Wikimedia Commons Fig. 11c_Courtesy of rome101.com. Rome101 is a registered DBA of LiveSky, Inc.
Fig. 12_ Coyau [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 13_ [Public domain], via Wikimedia Com-
mons
Chapter 04
Fig. 0_Diagram by Liliane Wong Fig. 1a_Gustave Le Gray (Gallica) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 1b_Christophe EYQUEM from Vientiane (Laos) (Carcassonne) [CC BY 3.0 (http://creative-
commons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2_Diagram by Yue Zhang
Chapter 05
Fig. 0_[Public domain], https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1020146 Figs. 1–4,
8–9_Diagrams by Liliane Wong Fig. 5_Nyotarou (Own work), CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikime-
dia.org/w/index.php?curid=39352102 Fig. 6_Jondu11 (Jondu11) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/
fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 4.0-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0_(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 7_Bernard Gagnon (Own work), CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wiki-
media.org/w/index.php?curid=20916502
Chapter 06
Fig. 0_Department of Defense. Department of the Army. Office of the Chief Signal Officer (http://
research.archives.gov/description/5757187) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 1_Diagram
by Yue Zhang Fig. 2_U.S. Department of Defense. Department of the Army. Office of the Chief Signal
Officer. [2]—http://www.archives.gov/research/arc/ ARC Identifier: 531287; U.S. Defense Visual Infor-
mation Center photo HD-SN-99-02996 [1], Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.
php?curid=5811 Fig. 3, 4a_unknown author, Public domain Fig. 4b_M. Swierczynski—Stanisław Jan-
kowski, Adolf Ciborowski, Warszawa 1945 i dziś (Wydawnictwo Interpress, Warszawa, 1971, p. 66) –
Wiesław Głe˛bocki; Karol Mórawski (1985), “Kultura Walcza˛ca 1939–1945” (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo
Interpress, p. 64) – Antoni Przygoński (1980), “Powstanie Warszawskie w sierpniu 1944 r.”; Tom 1
(Warsaw: Polskie Wydawnictwo Naukowe), Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.
php? curid=2255273 Fig. 4c_Adrian Grycuk (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 pl (http://creativecommons.
org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/pl/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 5_Mouagip (Based on the previous
version of Madden), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Figs. 6, 8, 9_Diagrams by Yue
Zhang Fig. 7_Diagram by Liliane Wong
Chapter 07
Fig. 0_Photographer: Rushen, Flickr Fig. 1a_Courtesy rome101.com. Rome101 is a registered DBA of
LiveSky, Inc. Fig. 1b_Artwork from University of Toronto Wenceslaus Hollar Digital Collection, [Public
domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2_MasterOfHisOwnDomain—Eget arbejde, CC BY-SA 3.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4576074 Fig. 3_Diagrams by Clara Hernandez
Lopez Fig. 4_Photographer: Jorge Franganillo, Flickr Fig. 5a–b_Courtesy of Paul Kaloustian
Figs. 6a–c_Photographer: Matadero Madrid, Flickr Figs. 6d–f_Courtesy of photographer, Javier1949,
Flickr Fig. 7a_ M*tth.K (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via
Wikimedia Commons Figs. 7b–c_Courtesy of Nieto Sobejano Arquitectos Fig. 8_User:Jensens (Own
work), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 9_Por Tamorlan—Obra do próprio, CC BY-SA 3.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19338871 Fig. 10a_Liliane Wong Fig. 10b_Jean-
Pierre Dalbéra, [Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 11_Photo-
grapher: David van der Mark, Flickr Figs. 12a–c_Courtesy of Studio Marco Piva Fig. 13_Photographer:
Liliane Wong Fig. 14a_Sailko (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/
3.0)], via Wikimedia Common Fig. 14b_Victor Andrade—Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.
248
wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=45628284 Fig. 15_User:Olahus1 [ Creative Commons Attribu-
tion-Share Alike 2.5 Generic, 2.0 Generic and 1.0 Generic license], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 16_
Raimond Spekking, via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 17_Photographer: Trevor.patt, Flickr Fig. 18_Von
Tuxyso/ Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?
curid=43795147 Fig. 19a–b_Courtesy of Peter Kulka Architektur; photographer: J. Schöner
Chapter 08
Fig. 0, 1_Public domain Fig. 2_Unknown (http://www.nyc-architecture.com/SOH/SOH022.htm), Public
domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12101897 Fig. 3a_Jim.henderson (at En-
glish Wikipedia, transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons by Gerardus using CommonsHelper), [Pub-
lic domain], https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15915713 Fig. 3b_準建築人手札網站
Forgemind ArchiMedia, Flickr Fig. 4_© Rachel Whiteread; Courtesy of the artist, Luhring Augustine,
New York, Lorcan O’Neill, Rome, and Gagosian Gallery Figs. 5a–b_Photographer: Liliane
Wong Fig. 6_© 2016 Estate of Gordon Matta-Clark/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York Fig. 7_Adri-
an Michael [Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License 3.0 Unported], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 8_Courtesy of Koonshing Wong; photographer: Mariko Reed Fig. 9_© Simon Menges,
Courtesy of David Chipperfield Architects Fig. 10_Boobax—Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.
wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27846951 Fig. 11a_Terrycohn (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://
creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 11b_Jack Boucher [Public
domain], via Wikimedia Commons Figs. 12a–d_Section drawing by Arturo Cebollero, María Sánchez,
y Pilár Giménez Images: Courtesy of Sergio Sebastián Franco
Chapter 09
Fig. 0_[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Figs. 1a–b_Photographer: Liliane Wong Fig. 2a_[Pub-
lic Domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2b_Photographer: Diueine Monteiro, Flickr Fig. 3a_Library
of Congress (http://www.loc.gov/pictures/search/?q=Drawing:%20ma1642&fi=number&op=PHRASE&-
va =exact&co%20=hh&st=gallery&sg%20=%20true) Fig. 3b_WBUR Boston NPR’s News Station,
Flickr Fig. 3c_By Unknown (survey information not yet digitized).—Historic American Buildings Survey
(Library of Congress), Survey number HABS MA-1259, Call Number HABS MASS,13-BOST,143-1. Public
domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1949963 Fig. 3d_Photographer: Wally
Gobetz, Flickr Fig. 3e_WBUR Boston NPR News Radio Station, Flickr Fig. 4a_Floor plan courtesy of
Barbara Stehle; Diagram by Yue Zhang Fig. 4b_Nefelimhg [Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike
License 3.0 Unported], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 5a_By Michel Zacharz AKA Grippenn[1]—Own
work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1083901 Fig. 5b_y Marcin
Białek—Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21470481
Fig. 6_T/4 Sidney Blau, 163rd Signal Photo Company, Army Signal Corps—U.S. Holocaust Museum photo
graph #37255 (also here)Credit: SC 206310, Credit NARA, College ParkSubject Classification: MAJOR
CONCENTRATION CAMPS 1940–45—Dachau—LIBERATION—Views—GeneralKeywords: DACHAU,
CONCENTRATION CAMPS, BARRACKS, VIEWS, SURVIVORS, Public Domain, https://commons.wikime-
dia.org/w/index.php?curid=542794 Fig. 7a_Photographer: Groume, Flickr Fig 7b_Public domain
Fig. 8a_Public domain Fig. 8b_Kohls, Ulrich [Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Germany],
via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 9_Saschaporsche (Own work), CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.
org/w/index.php?curid=17191406
Chapter 10
Fig. 0, 1_Photographer: Liliane Wong Fig. 2_Photographer: Design Milk, Flickr Fig. 3_Unité d‘habita-
tion, Marseille, 1945, Schéma d’organisation des services communs, Plans FLC 27145, © Fondation
Le Corbusier/ADAGP, Paris/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 2016 2016 Fig. 4_© OMA
Fig. 5_Kolossos [Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License 3.0], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 6_Specialpaul [Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License 4.0 International], via
Wikimedia Commons Fig. 7_Diagram by Liliane Wong Fig. 8_Photographer: Clara Halston Fig. 9a_
Courtesy KÖNIG GALERIE; photographer: By Semra Sevin Fig. 9b_Courtesy Tatiana Trouvé and KÖNIG
GALERIE; photographer: Roman März Fig. 9c_Nathan Hylden and KÖNIG GALERIE; photographer:
Roman März Fig. 10a_Massimiliano Calamelli, Flickr Fig. 10b_Carole Raddato from Frankfurt, Germa-
ny (The Engine Room, Centrale Montemartini, Rome) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licens-
es/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 11a_August Mau [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 11b_Courtesy of rome101.com. Rome101 is a registered DBA of LiveSky, Inc. Fig. 12a_
J. B. (Jean Baptiste?) Guibert—postcard of old engraving, scanned by Robert Schediwy, Public domain,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11470312 Fig. 12b_Oakenchips (Own work) [CC
BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 13a_ Von
Times—Eigenes Werk, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10286172
Fig. 13b_Public domain
249
Chapter 11
Fig. 0_Photographer: Wolfgang Rudorf Fig. 1_Photographer: Achim Hatzius © Alape Courtesy of Heine
Lenz Zizka Fig. 2_Fletcherspears (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/
by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 3_Photographer:
urbz, Flickr Fig. 4_Photographer: Kellan, Flickr Figs. 5a–b_Courtesy of Lee Boroson Fig. 6_Architect:
Adam Kalkin/Industrial Zombie, architect; photographer: Peter Aaron/Otto Fig. 7_Courtesy of Caterina
Tiazzoldi; photo by Luca Campigotto Figs. 8a–b_Courtesy of i29 interior architects Fig. 8c_Rijksdienst
voor het Cultureel Erfgoed [CC BY-SA 3.0 nl (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/nl/deed.en)],
via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 9_Inga Knoelke—Inga Knoelke, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 10_Photographer: Heather Anne Campbell, Flickr Figs. 11a–b_Photographer: Clara Hernan-
dez Lopez Fig. 12a_Joe Ravi, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=
15260356 Fig. 12b_Photographer: Tom Mascardo 1, Flickr Figs. 13a–d_Courtesy of César Rueda
Arquitecto; photography: José Hevia Figs. 14a–b_Courtesy of Claudio Greco Fig. 15a_Terrycohn
(Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Fig. 15b_Jack Boucher, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Chapter 12
Fig. 0_Courtesy of Sui Park Fig. 1_Photographer: Cea [Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)], via
Flickr Fig. 2_Photographer: John Lord [Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)], via Flickr Fig. 3_Courtesy
of MassMOCA Fig. 4_Photographer: Mirko Tobias Schäfer, Flickr Fig. 5a_Maurizio OM Ongaro (Own
work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 5b_
By Pava (Milano)—Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0 it, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?
curid=33273341 Fig. 6a_Photographer: Jérôme Falcou, Flickr Fig. 6b_Photographer: Maurice,
Flickr Fig. 7a_Wikiwal [Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license], via Wikimedia
Commons Fig. 7b_Pixabay Fig. 7c_Guilhem Vellut [Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)], via
Flickr Fig. 8_NAParish [Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.00], via Flickr Fig.9a_Photo
grapher: ..colb.., Flickr Fig. 9b_ By Wiiii—Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/
index.php?curid=5079090 Fig. 9c_Photographer: Forgemind Archimedia, Flickr Fig. 10_Photographer:
Nathan Williams, Flickr Fig. 11_Photographer: Jason Chan, Flickr Figs. 12a–d_Courtesy of UN Studio,
photograph by Christian Richters Fig. 13_Photographer: Dana Gordon, Flickr Fig. 14_Photographer:
Digitalshorts Mark Bryant, Flickr
Chapter 13
Figs. 0, 1_Diagrams by Liliane Wong Fig. 2a_Photographer: Tony Bowden, Flickr Fig. 2b_E. de Rolland
& D. Clouzet—Bibliothèque nationale de France, Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.
php?curid=23819604 Fig. 2c_Photographer: Anthony V, Flickr Fig. 3a_Specialpaul [Creative Com-
mons Attribution-ShareAlike License 4.0 International], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 3b_K.l.a.u.s. (at
German Wikipedia, transferred from de.wikipedia to Wikimedia Commons, [CC BY-SA 2.0 de (http://
creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/de/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 4a_Hugh Mana-
tee (from a c. 1905 postcard), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 4b_[Public domain]
Fig. 4c_Detroit Publishing Company (http://digitalgallery.nypl.org/nypldigital/id?74363), Public domain,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10711060 Fig. 5a_Photographer: bobistraveling,
Flickr Fig. 5b_Photographer: Richard Moross, Flickr Figs. 6a_Courtesy of © David Chipperfield Archi-
tects; photograph © Simon Menges Fig. 6b_Courtesy of © David Chipperfield Architects Fig. 7_
Pi.1415926535 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL
(http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 8_Courtesy of Coop Himmelb(l)au;
photographer © Duccio Malagamba Fig. 9_David van der Mark [Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC
BY-SA 2.0)], via Flickr Figs. 10a_Kamel15 (Own work) [GPL (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/gpl.html) or
CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Figs. 10b,
d_Photograph by Carole Aizenstark from her article “Transcending Time: La Fabrique,” The Int|AR Jour-
nal, Vol. 4 Fig. 10c_Diagram by Yue Zhang Fig. 11a_Photographer: Clara Halston Fig. 11b_Von Janer-
icloebe (Own work), Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8479427
Fig. 11c_Von Lenie Beutler (Own work), CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?cu-
rid=6126001 Fig. 11d_Public domain Fig. 11e_Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/in-
dex.php?curid=312215 Figs. 11f–g_Diagrams by Yue Zhang Fig. 12a_Photographer: Rosa G, Flickr
Figs. 12b–c, 13a_Photographer: Javier1949, Flickr Fig. 13b, c_Diagram by Liliane Wong; photographer:
Liliane Wong Fig. 14_Courtesy of Roberto Collová Fig. 15a_Paolo Monti—Available in the BEIC digital
library and uploaded in partnership with BEIC Foundation.The image comes from the Fondo Paolo
Monti, owned by BEIC and located in the Civico Archivio Fotografico of Milan. CC BY-SA 4.0, https://
commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48053746 Fig. 15b_Di I, Sailko, CC BY 2.5, https://com-
mons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3587438 Fig. 15c_CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.
org/w/index.php?curid=885777 Figs. 16a–c_ Courtesy of Markus Scherer Architekt; photographer:
250
Alessandra Chemollo Figs. 16d–f_Photographer: Klaus Civegna, Italy, Flickr Fig. 17a_Anonymous
[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 17b_Pixabay Fig. 18a_HenkvD (Own work) [CC BY-SA
3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 18b_Frank Van
Laanen (Bunker 599) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 18c_Diagram by Yue Zhang Fig. 19a_By Alexander Lütjen (originally posted to Flickr as
Caixa Forum) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Fig. 19b_Marco Pagni from Firenze, Italia (19) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 20a_Photographer: Liliane Wong Fig. 20b–c_Courtesy of Roberto Coll-
ová Fig. 21_ Courtesy of © Archive Olgiati Fig. 22a–b_Courtesy of Koonshing Wong, photographer:
Mariko Reed Fig.23a_Andreas Praefcke (Own work (own photograph)) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/
copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 23b_Photographer: Adam Smith, Flickr Fig. 24_ Courtesy of Allen Memorial Art Museum,
photo by Ralph Lieberman Fig. 25_Photographer: Liliane Wong Figs. 26a,c_Courtesy of Adam Kalkins,
architect; photo by Peter Aaron/Esto Fig. 22b_Courtesy of Adam Kalkins, architect Figs. 27a–c_Dia-
grams by Yue Zhang
Chapter 14
Fig. 0_Miguel Hermoso Cuesta (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/
by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 1a_[Public domain], via Wikimedia Fig. 1b_Charles Herbert
Moore, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2a_OyundariZorigtbaatar (Own work) [CC BY-SA
4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 2b_Passivhaus
Institut (copied to Commons from http://en.wikipedia.org, original source Passivhaus Institut, Germany
– http://www.passiv.de, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1256683
Fig. 3a_chensiyuan [Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International, 3.0 Unported, 2.5 Ge-
neric, 2.0 Generic and 1.0 Generic license], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 3b_Hanno Böck (Own work)
[CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 4a_
Charles Marville, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 4b–c_Courtesy of © Édouard François
Fig. 5_Photographer: 準建築人手札網站 Forgemind ArchiMedia, Flickr Fig. 6a_Gouwenaar (Own work),
[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 6b_Photographer: Arjen Dijk, Flickr Fig. 7a_[Public Do-
main], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 7b_RadioFan at English Wikipedia, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.
wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10561778 Fig. 8a_Zureks—Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://com-
mons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4183500 Fig. 8b_[Public Domain], via Wikimedia Com-
mons Fig. 9a_ By Ken Lund from Las Vegas, Nevada, USA—London Bridge, Lake Havasu City, Arizona,
Uploaded by LongLiveRock, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?
curid=9696374 Ken Lund [Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license], via Wiki-
media Commons Fig. 9b_Cornell University Library—Flickr: London Bridge from the A. D. White Ar-
chitectural Photographs collection, Cornell University Library, Accession Number: 15/5/3090.01026.,
Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15532300 Fig. 10_Fletcher6 (Own
work), CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32347419 Fig. 11_Di Manfre-
donia Apulia Caput (Own work), CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?
curid=47477392 Fig. 12a_Bernard Gagnon [Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported,
2.5 Generic, 2.0 Generic and 1.0 Generic license], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 12b_Photographer:
Juan Llanos, Flickr Fig. 13_Diagram by Liliane Wong
Chapter 15
Fig. 0_Adobe Fig. 1_Jeroen Bennink [Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)]. via Flickr Fig. 2_Metro
Centric [Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 3_David
Kasparek [Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)], via Flickr Fig. 4_Photographer: Matadero Madrid,
Flickr Fig. 5_Georges Jansoone, [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 6_Charles Le Brun
[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 7_Paolo Monti [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.
org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons Fig. 8_Photographer: Turboff, Flickr Fig. 9_Photo
grapher: Liliane Wong
251
About the Author
Liliane Wong is Professor and Chair of the Department of Interior Architecture at the Rhode Island
School of Design, which focuses on architectural interventions to existing structures. Her interest and
teaching in this subject led her to co-found the Int|AR Journal on Design Interventions & Adaptive
Reuse that promotes creative and academic explorations of sustainable environments through
exemplary works of reuse. A long time volunteer at soup kitchens, her teaching emphasizes the impor-
tance of public engagement in architecture and design. Other teaching and research areas include
design as social activism, the mathematics of curved space, the low-income modular home and tech-
nical textiles.
She is a contributing author of Designing Interior Architecture (Sylvia Leydecker, ed.) and Flexible
Composite Materials in Architecture, Construction and Interiors (René Motro, ed.) and the co-author
of Libraries – A Design Manual (with Nolan Lushington and Wolfgang Rudorf), all published by Birk
häuser.
Liliane Wong received her BA in Mathematics from Vassar College and her MArch from the Harvard
University Graduate School of Design.
A registered architect in Massachusetts, she has practiced through her own firm, Mahon Wong Asso-
ciates, as well as with the Boston firms of Perry Dean Rogers and FHCM. Key projects include the
American Embassy in Jordan, Montclair Public Library, Hartford Public Library, and the design of the
Kore Library Furnishings Line.
252
Index Bernini, Gian Lorenzo 69, 190,
192
131, 131, 136, 138, 196, 197,
202–203, 205, 218, 244, 245
of persons, firms, institutions,
Bibliotheca Hertziana, Rome Churtichaga + Quadra-Salcedo
buildings, works, projects and
117, 118, 214 Arquitectos 109, 110, 242
publications
Blue Print, installation, Sui Park Cineteca Matadero, Madrid,
177 Spain 107, 110, 240, 242
Boito, Camillo 77, 83, 88, 89 Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt 44
Page numbers in italics refer Boroson, Lee 165 Clock Tower Gallery see
to illustrations Bramante, Donato 190, 192 New York Life Insurance
Brandi, Cesare 24, 96–97, 101 Company Building
185 Post Street Building, San British Standards Institution Codex Theodosianus 67
Francisco, California, USA 13–14, 17, 19, 23 Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded
131, 215–216 Brooklyn Bridge Event 126, View, Cornelia Parker 176,
9/11 Memorial, New York City, 176, 183 178
New York, USA 146–147, 147 Buckingham Palace, London, Collovà, Roberto 116, 206, 213
Abu Simbel, Egypt 232, 233 Great Britain 231 Colosseum, Rome, Italy 44,
Acropolis, Athens, Greece 95 Bunker 599, Culemborg, 47–48, 48, 69
Adam, Robert 39, 228 Netherlands 211, 213 Community Development
Aesthetics, G. W. F. Hegel 80, Bunny Lane, New Jersey 218, Block Grant 125
82 220–221 Coop Himmelb(l)au 198, 199
Alape exhibit, ISH Trade Fair, Burra Charter 13, 15, 17, 19, 20, corpus, Ann Hamilton 165
Frankfurt, Germany 164, 26, 99, 235 Creative Evolution, Henri Berg-
164, 165 Burri, Alberto 132, 132 son 85
Alberti, Leon Battista 240 Caesar, Julius 42, 51 Cretto di Burri, Gibellina, Italy
Allen Memorial Art Museum, Caixa Forum, Madrid, Spain 132, 132
Oberlin College, Oberlin, 212, 213, 240, 242 Cromwell, Oliver 70
Ohio, USA 217, 218–219 Campanile, Venice, Italy 94, Crown Hall, Chicago, Illinois,
Altar of Pergamon 90 95 USA 172, 172
Amir Building, Tel Aviv Muse- Camper Stores 169, 170, 170 Cruz y Ortiz Arquitectos 210
um, Tel Aviv, Israel 188 Canova, Antonio 72, 74 Crystal Palace, London, Great
Amphitheater, Arles, France 47, Cape Hatteras Lighthouse & Britain 162
47, 158, 159 Station, North Carolina, USA Cuypers, Pierre 210, 211
Apple Store 128 232, 232 Dachau Concentration Camp
Appleton Charter 99 Carandiru Penitentiary, São Memorial Site, Dachau,
Arad, Michael 147 Paulo, Brazil, 142 Germany 56, 57, 143, 145
Archaeological Space, Daroca, Caravaggio 58, 59 Dacheng Flour Mills see
Spain 133, 134–135 Carbonara, Giovanni 8 Shenzhen Biennale 2015
Atelier de Lyon 211 Castelvecchio, Verona, Italy 6, Dælls Varehus see Skt. Petri
Athens Charter 1931 92–93, 106 Hotel, Copenhagen
98, 102, 114, 157, 201 Centrale Montemartini muse- Darwin, Charles 85
Athens Charter 1933 93–94 um, Rome, Italy 157, 159 De Architectura, Vitruvius 71,
Atzu, Taturo 182, 182 Centro Cultural Escuelas Pías 240, 243
Augustus 46 de Lavapiés, Madrid, Spain Death and Life of Great Ameri-
Aulenti, Gae 32, 166 113, 114, 204, 204, 206 can Cities, Jane Jacobs 125
Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial Centro Infantil del Mercado, Dehio, Georg 83
and Museum 52, 142, 143, Alcañiz, Spain 173, 173–174 Der moderne Denkmalskultus:
144 Cesariano, Cesare 243 Sein Wesen und seine Ent-
Bach, Johann Sebastian 36 Chambers, William 39, 228 stehung (Riegl) 8, 10
Bankside Power Station see Chao Ponhea Yat High School Derrida, Jacques 39
Tate Modern, London see S-21 Dictionnaire Historique d’Archi-
Bartók, Béla 36 Charles, Prince of Wales 98, tecture, Quatremère de
Baths of Diocletian see Santa 99 Quincy 74
Maria degli Angeli e dei Charles V, Holy Roman Diller Scofidio + Renfro 222,
Martiri Emperor 67 223
Baths of Zeuxippus, Istanbul, Charles Street Jail, Boston, DOCOMOMO International 99
Turkey 36 Massachusetts, USA Documentation Center,
Benedict XIV, Pope 69 140–141, 142 Nuremberg, Germany 53, 54
Benjamin, Walter 230, 231, 238 Chiesa Madre, Salemi, Italy Domenig, Günther 54
Berducou, Marie 14 116, 116, 213, 214 Douglas, James 13, 14, 15, 16,
Bergson, Henri 85, 146 Chiesa Rossa see Santa Maria 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 25,
Berlin City Palace, Berlin, Annunziata 27
Germany 145, 146, 146 Chipperfield, David 113, 114, Duccio di Buoninsegna 61
253
Duchamp, Marcel 182 Giebeler, Georg 16, 20, 21, 23, International Council on Monu-
Durand, Jean-Nicolas-Louis 26 ments and Sites (ICOMOS)
240 Giovannoni, Gustavo 83–84 11, 13–15, 17, 19–23, 26, 96,
Eiffel Tower, Paris, France 65 “Grande Ludovisi” Sarcopha- 235
Einstein, Albert 223 gus 43 International Magazine Build-
Eisenman, Peter 39, 40, 40 Greco, Claudio 175 ing, New York City, New
Elbphilharmonie, Hamburg, Greenfield Village, Detroit, York, USA (Hearst Building)
Germany 152, 152, 192–193, Michigan, USA 60, 60 171–172, 172, 195–196
194 Grégoire, Henri 73, 74 Ise Grand Shrine, Japan 85,
Elgin Marbles 72, 90 Grimmer, Anne 19, 20, 21 87
Eliasson, Olafur 183, 184, 185, Guggenheim Museum, New ISH Trade Fair, Frankfurt,
185 York City, New York, USA 180 Germany 164, 164, 165
Emerson, Ralph Waldo 82 Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, Turkey Ito, Toyo 184, 184
Englewood, New Jersey, USA 36 Jacobs, Jane 125
32, 32, 129, 129 Hague Convention for the Jesus Christ 58, 61, 85, 95
English Suite No. 2, J. S. Bach Protection of Cultural Jewish Museum, Berlin,
36 Property 90 Germany 217, 219
Evans, Sir Arthur 77, 85, 87 Hallstatt, Austria 65, 66, 228, Joachimstrasse 11, Berlin,
Falkestrasse, Vienna, Austria 228–229, 230 Germany 131, 131, 196, 197,
198, 199 Hamilton, Ann 165 218
Fallingwater in Bear Run, Harriet Rees House, Chicago, Jokilehto, Jukka 14, 97
Pennsylvania, USA 98 Illinois, USA 64, 65 Jones, Inigo 71
Fehn, Sverre 61, 62, 113, 114, Harry Potter 58 Kabakov, Ilya 176
244, 245 Hearst Tower see International Kahlfeldt, Petra 21
Felix Meritis Building, Amster- Magazine Building Kahn, Louis I. 35
dam, Netherlands 168, Hedmark Museum, Hamar, Kalkin, Adam 167, 220–221
168–169 Norway 61, 62, 244, 245 Kaloustian, Paul 108
Fitch, James Marston 18 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Kamp Westerbork, Nether-
Flavin, Dan 179, 180 Friedrich 80, 82, 82, 86 lands 231, 231
Fondazione Querini Stampalia, Heine/Lenz/Zizka 164 Kant, Immanuel 90
Venice, Italy 244, 245 Heiss, Alanna 176 Karl XI, King of Sweden 70
Fontana, Carlo 69 Herculaneum, Italy 72, 85 Karloff, Boris 31, 34
Ford, Henry 60 Herzog & de Meuron 105, 132, Kartal – Pendik, Istanbul,
Foster & Partners 222, 223 133, 174, 175, 192, 194, 210, Turkey 36, 37
Fountain, Marcel Duchamp 182 212, 242 Kedleston Hall, Derbyshire,
Fouquet’s Barrière Hotel, Paris, Hippocrates 243 England 39
France 229, 229 Hirshhorn Bubble Proposal, Kircher, Athanasius 9
Frame Store see Felix Meritis Washington, DC, USA 222, Knossos, Crete, Greece 77, 85,
Building 223 87
France, Anatole 77 Historic England 13, 15, 17, 22, König Galerie see St. Agnes
Franco, Sergio Sebastián 23, 25 Church, 156, 156, 157
134–135 Home Within Home, Do Ho Kolumba Museum, Cologne,
François, Édouard, 229 Suh 229, 230, 230 Germany 64, 64, 118, 118
Frankenstein, James Whale 34 Humboldt Forum see Berlin Koolhaas, Rem (see also
Frankenstein or The Modern City Palace OMA) 18, 73, 101, 240
Prometheus, Shelley 34, 122 i29 168–169 Kraanspoor Building, Amster-
Franzensfeste, Eisack Valley, Illy Pop-Up Store, Venice, Italy dam, Netherlands 114, 115,
Italy 207, 208–209, 210 166, 167 199, 199, 240, 242
Frauenkirche, Munich, Illy Pop-Up Store, Milan, Italy La Fabrique île de Nantes,
Germany 83 166, 167 Nantes, France 200, 201
Free University Philology Institute for Art and Urban La Madeleine, Vézelay, France
Library, Berlin, Germany Resources, Inc. see MoMA 74
222, 223 PS1 Lake Havasu City, Arizona,
Friedrich, Caspar David 81 INTACH 15, 20, 23, 26, 235 USA 232, 234
Galleria Department Store Int|AR Journal 6 LaVerdiere, Julian 55
West, Seoul, South Korea International Centre for the Lazarus 61, 95
186, 186–187 Study of the Preservation League of Nations 92, 96
Gare d’Orsay, Paris, France 32, and Restoration of Le Brun, Charles 244
32, 165, 166 Cultural Property (ICCROM) Le Corbusier 93, 100, 142, 151,
Gehry, Frank 198, 198 96–97 240
Ghost, Rachel Whiteread 127, International Council of Muse- Le Terrazze Hotel, Treviso, Italy
127, 129 ums (ICOM) 96 115, 115
254
Leo X, Pope 67 Morris, William 17, 24,73, Park Avenue Armory, New York
Leonardo da Vinci 124 76–77, 82, 226, 228 City, New York, USA 132,
“Les quatre complexions de Munch, Edvard 137 133, 174–175, 210
l’homme”, Charles Le Brun Musée d’Orsay see Gare Parker, Cornelia 176, 178
244 d‘Orsay Parthenon, Athens, Greece 74,
LeWitt, Sol 126, 178, 178 Museo di Castelvecchio, 85
Liberty Hotel, Boston, Massa- Verona, Italy 207, 210 Paul III, Pope 67
chusetts, USA 140–141, 142 Museum of Modern Art, Paxton, Joseph 162
Libeskind, Daniel 40, 49, 49, Vienna, Austria 179 Peabody Essex Museum,
147, 217, 219 Muthesius, Hermann 77, 83 Salem, Massachusetts, USA
Linazasoro & Sánchez Arqui- Myoda, Paul 55 232, 234, 235
tectura 113, 114, 204, 204 MYU Bar, Beirut, Lebanon 107, Pérac, Étienne du 68, 68
Lincoln, Abraham 30 108 Perkins, Anthony 31
Lincoln Memorial, Washington, Napoleon I, Emperor 90 Peter Kulka Architektur 222,
DC, USA 30, 30 Nara Document on Authenticity 223
Locke, John 90, 136 14, 99 Philippot, Paul 11, 18
London Bridge, London, Great National Congress Building, Piranesi, Giovanni Battista 68
Britain 232, 234 Brasilia, Brasilia 98 Pius II, Pope 67
Long Museum of Contempo- Navarro Baldeweg, Juan 117, Pius IV, Pope 67, 68, 68, 102
rary Art, Shanghai, China 118 Pixel Hotel, Linz, Austria 121
119, 119 Nazi Party Rally Grounds, Plastic Fantastic, Lee Boroson
Loos, Adolf 83, 84, 84 Nuremberg, Germany 53 165
Luxor Temple, Egypt 49, 50 Neues Museum, Berlin, Plimoth Plantation in
Lyon Opera House, Lyon, Germany 113, 114, 136, 138, Plymouth, Massachusetts,
France 192, 193 201, 202–203, 204–206, USA 60, 60, 61
Maderno, Carlo 190, 192 238, 244, 245 Pollock, Jackson 124
Manetti, Latino Giovenale 67 Neutra, Richard 65 Pompeii, Italy 72, 85
Mantegna, Andrea 42, 44–45 New Synagogue, Dresden, Ponce de León, Juan 58
Marble Arch, London, Great Germany 54, 55 Porticus Octaviae, Rome, Italy
Britain 231 New York Life Insurance 46, 46
Mariné, Miquel 173 Company Building, New York Prada Pop-Up Store, Paris 167
Martin V, Pope 67 City, New York, USA 125, Prada Pop-Up Store, Venice
MASS MoCA, North Adams, 125 167
Massachusetts, USA 165, Niemeyer, Oscar 98, 100 Quatremère de Quincy,
166, 178 Nieto Sobejano Arquitectos Antoine Chrysostôme 24,
Matta-Clark, Gordon 32, 32, 109, 242 74, 224, 228
126, 129, 129 Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm Queens Public School No. 1
McCulloch, Robert 232 82, 82 see MoMA PS1
McKim, Mead & White 125, 125 Nikolaj Kunsthal see Saint Questioni pratiche di belle arti,
Memorial to the Abolition of Nicholas Church, Copen Boito 88, 89
Slavery, Nantes, France 144, hagen RAAAF 211
145 Notre Dame, Paris, France Rain Room, Random Interna-
Mérimée, Prosper 224 74–75, 124, 130 tional 185, 186
Merzbau, Schwitters 176, 178 Nouvel, Jean 192, 193 Ramsgaard, Mette 188, 189
Mezquita de Córdoba, Oklahoma State University Random International 185,
Córdoba, Spain 32, 32 Art Gallery, Stillwater, 186
Michelangelo Buonarroti Oklahoma, USA 164 Raphael 67
67–68, 69, 190, 192 Old Town Market Place, Rennie, John 232
Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig Warsaw, Poland 61–63, 63 Residenzschloss, Dresden,
172, 172 Olgiati, Valerio 130, 215 Germany 222–223
Mikrokosmos V, Nr. 131, OMA (see also Koolhaas, Revett, Nicholas 70, 71, 228
Bartók 36 Rem) 100–101, 150, 151 Rhode Island School of
Military History Museum, OTH Architecten 114, 199, 199, Design’s Department of
Dresden, Germany 40, 49, 242 Interior Architecture 6–7
49, 53, 152, 152, 218 Oude Kerk, Amsterdam, Riegl, Alois 10, 18, 73, 78, 86,
MoMA PS1, New York City, Netherlands 182, 182 88–89, 88, 102, 143
New York, USA 126, 126 Palace of the Republic, Berlin, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam,
Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci Germany 146 Netherlands 210, 211
124 Palladio, Andrea 39, 226, 228, Rooms, exhibit at PS1 126
Morin, Elise 180, 181 240 Rueda, César 173
Moritzburg Castle, Halle, Palmyra, Syria 52, 236, 237, 238 Ruskin, John 16, 23–24, 75–77,
Germany 109, 111, 240, 242 Park, Sui 177 82, 228, 240
255
S-21, Phnom Penh, Cambodia Tate Museum, London, Great U. S. Supreme Court,
52, 53, 142–143, 143 Britain 185, 185 Washington, DC, USA 39
Saint Nicholas Church, Copen- Tempelhof Airport Building, United Nations 96
hagen, Denmark 149 Berlin, Germany 160–161, Utzon, Jørn 100
Salemi urban plaza, Italy 116, 160–161 Valéry, Paul 226
116, 206, 207, 213, 214 Teoria del restauro, Brandi Vattel, Emer de 90
San Felice, Guglionesi/ 96–97 Venice Charter of 1964 10, 13,
Avignonesi, Italy 174, 175 Tetrarc 200 14, 25, 97–99, 101, 102, 114,
Santa Barbara, Asturias, Spain The Antiquities of Athens and 172, 201, 204, 226, 235
148, 150 Other Monuments of Venturi, Robert 217, 218–219
Santa Maria Annunciata, Milan, Greece, Stuart & Revett 70, Vespasian 44
Italy 179, 180 71 Vézelay, France 74, 174, 210
Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei The Garden Which Is the Vietnam War Memorial,
Martiri, Rome, Italy 67–69, Nearest to God, Taturo Atzu Washington, DC, USA 52
68–69, 102, 104, 105, 111, 182, 182 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène
158, 158 The Hague, Netherlands 180, Emmanuel 8, 24, 74–75, 77,
Santa Maria Maggiore di 181 80, 85, 86–87, 130, 174, 210,
Siponto, Foggia, Italy 236, The Horror Show 31 224, 230, 236
236 The Incredulity of Saint Vitet, Ludovic 224
Scarpa, Carlo 6, 106, 207, 210, Thomas, Caravaggio 58, 59 Vitruvius 71, 228, 240, 243,
244, 245 The Modern Cult of Monu- 244
Scherer, Markus 208–209 ments, Riegl 78, 86, 88 Wall Drawing 51, Sol LeWitt
Schickel, Richard 31 The New York City Waterfalls, 178, 178
Schinkel, Karl Friedrich 39 Olafur Eliasson 183, 183–184 Wandel Lorch Architekten 55
Schwitters, Kurt 176, 178 The Raising of Lazarus, Duccio Wanderer Above the Sea of
Scott, Sir George Gilbert 76 di Buoninsegna 61 Fog, Caspar David Friedrich
Seattle Public Library, Seattle, The Scream, Edvard Munch 137 81
Washington, USA 150, 151 The Seven Lamps of Architec- Warsaw, Poland 61–63, 63, 95,
Selexyz Dominicanen Book- ture, Ruskin 75, 228, 240 95
store, Maastricht, Nether- The Weather Project, Olafur War Veteran Vehicle Project,
lands 64, 65, 107, 108, 138, Eliasson 185, 185 188, 188
139 Tiazzoldi, Caterina 167 Waste Landscape, Elise Morin
Semper, Gottfried 55, 77 Tower of Babel 10 180, 181
Serlio, Sebstiano 226, 228 Tower of the Winds, Toyo Ito Watson, Paul 13, 15, 16, 17, 21,
Shelley, Mary 34, 122 184, 184 22
Shenzhen Biennale 2015 164, Tower Records Building, Weeks, Kay 19, 20, 21
166 Boston, Massachusetts, Wexner Center for the Arts,
Siegel, Gwathmey 216–217, 217 USA 198, 198 Ohio State University,
Simpson, James 26 Tresoldi, Edoardo 235, 236 Columbus, Ohio, USA 39, 40
Sixtus V 44 Tribute in Light, New York City, Whale, James 34, 244
Siza, Álvaro 116, 213 New York, USA 54, 55 Whig Hall, Princeton University,
Skt. Petri Hotel, Copenhagen, Triumphs of Caesar, Andrea Princeton, New Jersey, USA
Denmark 148, 150 Mantegna 42, 44–45 216–217, 217
Slow Furl, Mette Ramsgaard Tschumi, Bernard 240 Whiteread, Rachel 127, 127, 129
188, 189 Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum Winckelmann, Johann Joachim
Soane, John 228 see S-21 72, 74
Society for the Protection of Turris Babel, Athanasius Kircher Wodiczko, Krzysztof 188, 188
Ancient Monuments (SPAB) 9 Wong, Koonshing 131, 216
76, 82 Tuttle, Richard 126 World Trade Center, New York
Splitting, Gordon Matta-Clark UNESCO 96–97, 99, 100, 119, City, New York, USA 54, 55,
32, 32, 129, 129 235 55
St. Agnes Church, Berlin 156, Unité d‘habitation, Marseille, Wright, Frank Lloyd 98, 100,
157 France 151 240
St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican UN Studio 186, 186–187 Yellow House, Flims, Switzer-
City 190, 192, 216 U. S. Customs House, Boston, land 130, 215, 215
Stuart, James 70, 71, 228 Massachusetts, USA 195, Yin Yu Tang House 232, 234,
Stubbs, John H. 15, 25 195 235
Studio Piva 115 U. S. Department/Secretary of Zaha Hadid Architects 37
Suh, Do Ho 229, 230, 235 the Interior 18, 19, 20, 21, Zollverein coal mine and coking
Sullivan, Louis 240 22, 25, 26 plant, Essen, Germany 32,
Tate Modern, London, Great U. S. Embassy, Karachi, 33, 119, 120
Britain 105, 105 Pakistan 65 Zumthor, Peter 64, 118
256

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Adaptation means the process(es) of modifying a place for a compatible

Adaptation means changing a place to suit the existing use or a proposed

Modifying the appearance, layout, or structure of a building to meet new

A change in formation, that is removal of partition walls to enlarge a

Work intended to change the function or appearance of a place.8

Action to secure the survival or preservation of buildings, cultural arte-

Conservation is the ensemble of means that, in carrying out an interven-

[A]ll efforts designed to understand cultural heritage, know its history

Modern conservation is principally characterized by the fundamental

Preserving a building purposefully by accommodating a degree of ben-

The process of caring for a place so as to safeguard its cultural heritage

The purpose of conservation is to care for places of cultural heritage value.

Conservation means all the processes of looking after a place so as to

The objective of conservation is to maintain the significance of the archi-

[w]ork including a change in function or change in use, such as converting

[W]ork that includes an increase in size, which can be horizontal or verti-

[C]ontinual activity to ensure the longevity of the resource without irre-

A “combination of all technical and administrative actions, including su-

Routine work regularly necessary to keep the fabric of a place in good

Repair and/or replacement work to keep or restore any/every part of a

Maintenance means regular and on-going protective care of a place to

Maintenance means the continuous protective care of a place, and its

The word preservation—in the broadest sense, being equivalent in some

Implies the maintenance of the artifact in the same physical condition as

Standards for Preservation: 1. A property will be used as it was historical-

Preservation is defined as the act or process of applying measures nec-

[P]reservation is no longer a retroactive activity but becomes a prospec-

Arresting or retarding the deterioration of a building or monument by

Preservation means to maintain a place with as little change as possible.46

Preservation means maintaining a place in its existing state and retarding

Preservation focuses on the maintenance and repair of existing historic

Reconstruction is defined as the act or process of depicting, by means of

Reconstruction is defined as the act or process of reproducing by new

Reconstruction is the rebuilding of a structure that no longer exists, i.e.

Reconstruction is distinguished from restoration by the introduction of

Reconstruction means returning a place to a known earlier state and is

Reconstruction re-creates vanished or non-surviving portions of a prop-

Reconstruction based on minimal physical evidence is appropriate where

[W]ork that is related to a change in performance.59

The refurbishment of a building always means adapting it to meet current

The difference between refurbishment and conversion, however, is that

Rehabilitation is defined as the act or process of making possible a com-

Work beyond the scope of planned maintenance, to extend the life of a

An upgrade in an element or elements of a building. A suitable example

Rehabilitation acknowledges the need to alter or add to a historic prop-

Dismantling and re-erecting a building at a different site. It can also mean

Comprehensive dismantling and replacement of an element of a place,

Work beyond the scope of regular maintenance … to return a building or

This is the “restoration of an item to an acceptable condition by the re-

Work beyond the scope of maintenance, to remedy defects caused by

Repair means to make good decayed or damaged fabric using identical,

Restoration is generally understood as any kind of intervention that per-

Restoration is defined as the act or process of accurately depicting the

Restoration is the continuation of [conservation], when conservation