By Rudolf Schürmann. Photo: © Rita Palanikumar
Rudolf Schürmann's architectural journey through space and time, which resulted in the founding of Poeticwalls: “Architecture changes our lives. I am a living example. My life is a laboratory for the exploration of building culture.”
“Why didn't you become an architect?” I often hear this question. My response: because all I want is to be with architecture. My favourite past-time is the search for architecturally convincing houses in a functioning context. At the beginning of my house career, I found real beauty and the right vibes in the weird, unloved and threatened. These buildings roused my inner protector, which was great. Good, because I could afford the properties that were overlooked by the market.
In 1996, I saw a magazine called Wallpaper* at a kiosk. I bought it because of the cover: a brutalist building. Reassured, but also disappointed, I realised that post-war modernism was gradually becoming hip. New competitors were to join my hunt for unknown architectural icons.
I never looked for retro, but always for a sublime sense of space. Cities, urban centres and building laws became my focus. It's amazing how Switzerland, a country with the highest density of good architects and leading schools of architecture, struggles with the realisation of projects: Oerlikon, Europaallee and Altstetten could easily have been more human, more varied, more experimental and three times denser and higher. Building cooperatives often build OK. They organise competitions and create recognisability. Construction sites I intuitively check for architectural quality as I pass by. If I like them, I don’t hesitate to enter and perhaps discover that a star architect has, for example, opted for the same sanitary fittings as me.
I have internalised the basics of design through my graphic-design studies, my fine arts studies and my career as a creative director in international advertising agencies. These fundamentals are valid for all creative activities. As a consumer of architecture and through collaboration and discussion with architects, I came to know what distinguishes great architecture from good architecture, and from non-architecture and fake architecture.
I see which floor plan creates a beautiful order. I see what doesn't make sense, what is too much. I understand and can explain the quality of spaces. I recognise what architecture has to offer. It's also great to discuss buildings and cities with artists or fashion designers, because they have the ability to visualise precisely and describe aesthetics, popular culture and the drivers of contemporary life. When I look back, I recognise the course of time and the phases of my life in the buildings I have lived in, as if through a magnifying glass.
The influence of architecture on reality and the transformation of places and people continuously captivates me. Wherever I am, I obsessively look at places and buildings. I visit architects, planners and artists in their studios. I talk to developers and residents. I couldn't help but found Poeticwalls with partners.
These houses taught me architecture.
I worked as a creative in an advertising agency in Gockhausen, on the shady side of the Zürichberg. During my lunch break, I always took the shortcut to the forest through a housing estate, which seemed friendly, humane, undogmatic. This was not an educated middle-class habitat, not a harbour for the established.
The long block, with five residential studio slices, was set right next to the forest and exuded late utopia – built in 1976. As I passed the narrow side, I was struck by the roof! Like a steep wave, the concrete shot over the long building, plastered with popcorn and mauve-coloured (matt). I saw a sign reading 'studio for sale' and knew I had to have it.
I would never have considered Gockhausen as a place to live. And I still didn't know who the architect and seller of this residential studio was: Eduard Neuenschwander, a former employee of Alvar Aalto. His philosophy was the extension of nature through architecture. I learnt to appreciate him.
Living under the roof wave was a great thing. A primal architectural experience. Coming home was an event, no matter where I had been or what mood I was in: the entrance to the ravine awaited. One and a half metres from the front door, a low, whitewashed brick wall prevented me from falling into the depths – where eating, living and leisure took place.
From the ground floor you entered the bathroom and two bedrooms, one of which had a silver-coloured wall: my daily religious experience. Handmade, sienna-red clay tiles covered the floor of the house. A beautiful solid-wood ladder took me upstairs to the hidden stage with the planted mini-roof area. This was my work and retreat corner, with a three-storey panoramic view of the clay and brick canyon. Above it, the steep wave of the concrete ceiling cascaded into the dining room with a bold sweep. If the house had been somewhere else, with more sunlight, I wouldn't have been able to get out of it.
Learnings. Firstly: I need light, otherwise I fall silent. Secondly: the colony is one of my favourite forms of living. Thirdly: Alvar Aalto's architecture adapts better to current times and needs than that of Le Corbusier.
The house at the top of the posh, but still sparsely populated, hill got plenty of sun. On the mountain, far above Weggis, the view to the south over the lake and the Alps is amazing. The border to the nature reserve runs right next to the property. Many of the houses in what is today a prime location were in need of renovation. Including this house, which I went on to buy when I was 30: influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright, the 1970s flat-roofed building in the lushly planted and now overgrown park has architectural sophistication. Everything is octagonal: the floor plans, the pool, right down to the door handle with the shell stonework. Two volumes were set into the steep slope with a sure hand. The excavation of the pudding stone had been used for walls and fixtures. This is not kitsch. Kitsch is reserved for the master bedroom, with its octagonal mega bathtub, clad in black Bisazza mosaic. The plush red carpet creeps up the bed and walls, framed by Verner Panton's mind-bending curtains. The interior designer worked impeccably: self-drawn fixtures assorted with impressive pieces by Warren Platner, Joe Colombo and other modernist expressives could stay. The owner was a plastic surgeon, an exotic career at the time. Popcorn plaster again on the outside, in pueblo red. The windows are gold-mirrored; Palm Springs is just round the corner.
Learnings. Firstly: I like the typology of the hillside house; the steeper the better. Secondly: a few banal buildings can devalue large landscapes. Thirdly: no more swimming pools.
After so much drama and entertainment, Michelle and I headed back to Zurich. We became first-time residents of the Kraftwerk1 housing cooperative, with its roots in the squatter scene. The 8-storey apartment block, with its dark brick facade and communal roof terrace, penthouse and bar, immediately became our home. The floor plan – on a manageable 98.5 m2 – by Stücheli Architekten was a treat. Pleasant: the super-high living space,(or 'orchestra pit', if you’re using the jargon), to which one descended a few steps and which was not visible from the shop-window-sized peephole in the entrance door. Most cooperative members rejected social control with curtains. The solar panels on the roof were ahead of their time, with a giant display of the electricity produced next to the letterboxes. Kraftwerk1 continued to build more innovative housing cooperatives.
Learnings. Firstly: floor plan beats net living space. Secondly: individuality and privacy are essential when it comes to living. Even in a cooperative. Thirdly: A cosy balcony is worth a lot.
Insert: Before we were to buy another hillside house just above Kraftwerk1, we were asked by architects Andreas Fuhrimann and Gabrielle Hächler to participate in a building project consisting of three parties. I am indebted to them to this day because I pulled out unexpectedly on the morning of the ownership transfer.
After the Gockhausen experience, I knew that too little sunlight was not good for me. I visited the building site on the Uetliberg at various times of the day. One last time the night before the signing. It turned out to be a sleepless night.
Learnings. Firstly: Listen to my needs! Secondly: Being part of a new-build project is exciting. Thirdly: Tigi and Gabi are great architects.
We were early adopters of brutalism. Long before SOS Brutalism and excited housing reports. Back then, our advertising agency launched Switzerland's first digital property portal. I browsed through the listings and clicked on a backlit photo with a bamboo grove. It was barely recognisable: A concrete ceiling, aggregate concrete, clay bricks – I called the estate agent and got a rebuff. "Already sold." "Already notarised?" I replied, and inspected the outside of the house with Michelle that same evening: pure architectural porn. Excessive brutalism with an aeroplane view over Zurich to the Alps. Höngg, supposedly the city’s most boring district, towered over the cool industrial neighbourhood. Only a hundred metres further, the hill turns away from the city and becomes deserted.
The next day, Hans Demarmels, the architect and owner, personally opened the front door for an official house tour. The estate agent's preferred buyer was the director of the Zurich Zoo. He wanted to replace the industrial tile floors and had made Hans Demarmels a low offer.
Our sales talk lasted two minutes. Michelle had studied architectural history with Le Corbusier specialist Stanislaus von Moos and was overwhelmed – as was I. "May we buy your house, Mr Demarmels?" "You can have it, at the zoo director's price, and that's that." 14 happy years of architectural entertainment followed. It was a time when we needed some spatial relaxation. In the meantime, friends had taken up residence in the two Demarmels apartment buildings on either side. We revitalised the colony character together, a beautiful legacy.
Learnings. Firstly: architectural entertainment is a great programme. Secondly: The house that the architect built for himself was the most expressive, but not the best. Being your own client is a dilemma. Most of the time. Thirdly: quiet, focused spaces are important to me.
Casa Citron, a Ticino holiday home from the 1960s, taught us, when compared with our Zurich residence from the 1960s, the difference between great architecture and architecture. Each time we arrived in Carona and entered the house, we immediately sensed harmony, concentration, generosity, and even monumentality in this limited space. A flowing connection with topography, location and culture. An attitude to life that gradually made Michelle and me forget the ingenious, brutalist tour de force of our main home in Zurich. The author was atelier 5, the architects' collective that made a name for itself internationally in housing development.
Learnings. Firstly: architecture is not more expensive than non-architecture. Secondly: the added value of outstanding architecture is real, and a strong currency in the property market. Thirdly: Baukultur saves our souls.
After 20 years in Zurich, we looked around for another place. London, Ireland, Scotland, Lisbon and Berlin were all options.
While researching Portuguese and London housing options, I discovered an unconventional apartment on the 16th floor of a new urban development in Zurich's Kreis 5. It ran through the full width of a highrise: from the east with views of the city and the Alps to the west towards the "Argovian Sun" – the title of a painting by Andreas Dobler. When the sun set in nearby Aargau, bathing the apartment in red light, it was a festive evening. At the time, the 202 m2, walk-through flat with a 5.6metre-high entrance hall and living area was inexpensive. In a city where property prices are now higher than in London.
Learnings. Firstly: Layout! Plus space, extra height, spaciousness, views. Secondly: I like vertical living and the socialisation of elevator rides. Thirdly: living in an urban development area made me a silent co-developer.
Two years later, during lockdown on the 16th floor without a balcony, Michelle requested a townhouse with garden. The brief: it had to be big enough to work with employees, offer privacy, accommodate guests, and all at the same time. A classic lockdown idea. I proposed a historicist corner villa from 1902 in an animated location in Basel: its narrow front side sitting on a busy street with faceless apartment blocks. Exceptions: WohnWerk by Christ & Gantenbein and a residential building by Urs Gramelsbacher. On the long side, the villa and garden border the idyllic Maiengasse, with its chic brick villas. Tram stop directly in front of the house; old town 5 minutes' walk away. Together with ARTEC Architekten from Vienna, we managed the conversion with team kitchen, main kitchen, guest rooms, dressing rooms and sufficient sanitary facilities. After a building freeze and objections from the preservation authorities, everyone was happy: our renovation efforts were recognised in the annual report of the cantonal preservation authority – including my colour concept.
The garden was the first project I designed myself: two concrete carpets for living. The meandering gravel path connects house and platforms, and rises slightly towards the garage. I planted cork oaks along the neo-baroque garden wall, which have no problem with heat and dry spells, and develop well. Former resident Paul Sarasin, the naturalist and initiator of the Swiss National Park, would have been pleased.
Learnings. Firstly: there is something about bourgeois living culture. Especially when it is updated by good architects. Secondly: There is something about being within walking distance of a historic city centre. Thirdly: Planting trees in your own city garden: marvellous.
Developments with Valerio Olgiati and Christ & Gantenbein