Living and working within reach of the centre of Dublin, I find myself noticing the buildings, old and new, that form the fabric of our capital city. By accident (a wrong turn here and there) or by design (curious to see what’s around the corner) I’ll often weave my way around its outskirts, listening to the buildings that speak to me.
There is something wonderfully romantic about walking among the redbrick turn-of-the-century terraces that are symbolic of Dublin city living. Their architecture is a language of solidity, of simplicity and community. Closely knit, their design reflects the purpose for which they were built. There’s no missing the message they’re articulating. This is home, with its threshold stepped back mere feet from the kerb, protected sometimes by cast-iron railings and a gate, or a step or two up, to protect from the rain.
You can imagine the old dears in their day, out with their buckets, leaning against their mops, having the chats with the neighbours while their kids play hopscotch outside. Together they wait for husbands to arrive home from a hard day’s toil in the brewery, or on the railway, or in the factories down the road.
Even today there’s still a warmth in the language and message of these buildings that some of our more modern architecture finds difficult to emulate or articulate even though they might sit side by side with their much older counterparts. Oftentimes, the success and beauty of modern architecture lie in its ability to not just sit comfortably beside the old but to positively amplify its language, message and purpose. It should speak to us.
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I took my friend Siobháin for a drive on a grey afternoon in the hope that she would hear things the way I do. We took a turn down one of those narrow terraced streets, and she wistfully remembered a time gone by when she lived not so far away. As we came to the junction at the end of the street, the voice and texture of the streetscape changed. Turning the corner, I was pleased to witness her jolt of surprise as she was unceremoniously confronted with a strip of vacant shops beneath stacks of apartments.
Buildings are like people. They present their personalities through the way they look. A building, through its design and build, can be silent and sterile, intimidating and scary. Likewise, it can be warm and inviting, safe and secure. The shape, the materials, the colour, the scale, combined, speak volumes.
To my friend the juxtaposition of these two streets, with their opposing visual language that spoke so differently, was perturbing. She heard it too. It made no sense.
As our towns and cities try desperately to cope with a seemingly relentless housing crisis, the decision to land a block of apartments propped up by the empty shell of empty retail units seems incongruous. The wonderful charm of a thriving, buzzing community disrupted by a desolate and intimidating structure is confusing. A square peg in a round hole. Boarded-up windows, cracked glass, and locked and blocked doors. The language is defensive and disruptive. The story told is soulless and unsafe. I have no doubt that these schemes will have looked vibrant in the renderings and visuals created to positively influence both the client and the planner. But in reality the shops are dead, and the token amenity spaces out front remain unoccupied and frightening.
And while we see situations like this all over our capital city, it’s not just happening in Dublin. I am privileged because of my work to be able to travel the length and breadth of our island. I have seen new schemes and developments like this spring up on main streets and side roads across our counties. The clarity of our spaces and their purpose is becoming confused and bringing with it a crisis of identity and safety.
As architects we have a responsibility to listen, to understand the needs of the community, and allow the function and visual language of our buildings tell their story and fulfil their purpose.
The solution? A modern-day architectural revolution of sorts. It’s time for our communities to take back our buildings. To be directly involved in fixing this distorted approach to “living above the shop” and to change their narrative.
We must pay closer attention to the buildings themselves, where and how they are positioned, the supports we place around them and the relationships that are created, both structural and emotional, as a result.
What if we took those ground-floor retail units and converted them to residential? What if we took back space from the overwidened paths and took heed from our turn-of-the-century neighbours? What if we built out the boundaries and made efforts to create amenity spaces that actually encouraged residents to come out and to chat to their neighbours?
It’s an interesting thought. And if it worked, I wonder what these buildings might say to us then.
