Here’s a rewritten blog post style, stripped down to the essentials, with a sarcastic tone:
**The Global South’s Architects & Engineers: A Bitter Tale**
The prevailing story of tropical modernism in the Global South has long overlooked the contributions of local architects and engineers, a story that’s been glossed over for too long. It’s a story of a forgotten legacy, a story that’s been tragically overlooked in favor of the dazzling brilliance of the Global North.
Growing up on Mount Makiling in Los Baños, Philippines, each day I would drive by a strange, enchanting open-air structure called St Marc’s Chapel. What always struck me was the concrete roof: bisected by a long, narrow skylight and practically floating in midair, its only support is a single crucifix column.
Beneath the concrete canopy were concrete benches that seemed to have grown from the earth, full of local shell and stone aggregate. An organic web of water channels snaked between the benches, feeding into a small pond just beyond the roof’s cover.
> When I tried learning who created this modernist gem, I hit a blockBefore I studied architecture and knew what to call the chapel’s style, I became enamored with the care and expertise of local tropical modernism. It’s difficult to know for sure, and no publication on tropical modernism I’ve read has the answer.
Tropical modernism adapted the inaccurately titled “international” modernism of the Global North to the climate and constraints of the Global South. The style’s name emerged in the 1940s and ’50s when Western designers such as Jane Drew and Maxwell Fry used modern materials like steel, concrete and glass in colonized regions throughout Africa, Asia and Latin America.
When they struggled to adapt industrialized construction materials and methods to regions with high temperatures, humidity and heavy rainfall, they borrowed from local expertise and traditional construction practices to design iconic regional architecture. However, when describing the achievements of tropical modernism, the role of the “local” is often ignored, perpetuating an incomplete narrative of tropical modernism as a unidirectional transfer of knowledge from the Global North to the Global South.
Architecture’s modernist canon largely ignores the local designers that made these structures possible. During the construction of the International Rice Research Institute’s research campus and staff housing (my childhood home in the Philippines), the Ford Foundation insisted on hiring American architect Ralph Walker to oversee the efforts of Filipino architects Alfredo J Luz and Carlos D Arguelles. Upon arrival, Walker was so impressed with the work Luz and Arguelles had already done, he exclaimed, “These boys are good. I wish I had them in my shop in New York!”
It didn’t always go that way. In post-independence India, structural engineer Mahendra Raj worked on many of the greatest examples of Indian modernism. Famously, prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru asked lauded Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier to design the capital for the new state of Punjab: Chandigarh. Raj got his start resolving Le Corbusier’s unrealistic designs for construction in an Indian context.
In an interview with architect Stephane Paumier, Raj described how when he and his supervisor suggested changes to Le Corbusier’s designs to make them constructible, Le Corbusier turned on them, saying, “Look what is happening… all this because your engineers do not know how to design!”
> There has always been a bidirectional transfer of knowledge between the Global North and Global South
>
>
> When American architect Kahn worked on the Ahmedabad campus of the Indian Institute of Management (IIM) with Pritzker Prize-winning Indian architect BV Doshi, Raj was, again, a young local engineer helping resolve the foreigner’s grand desires. Raj stated during an interview with Hans Ulrich Obrist that Kahn felt “we didn’t know the art of working with concrete,” so Kahn insisted on using brick made from local clays.
This was despite Raj and Doshi’s complaints that large brick structures were difficult to maintain, would not provide the large open spaces needed for a university, and would not survive very long in the earthquake-prone state of Gujarat. Ultimately, Raj and Doshi convinced Kahn to adopt a concrete-brick hybrid structure, resulting in iconic architectural elements like the thick buttressed walls used throughout the campus and the concrete ties that made Kahn’s impossible circular arches a reality.
While tropical modernism is often described as the gift of benevolent foreign designers to local builders, there has always been a bidirectional transfer of knowledge between the Global North and Global South. IIM was the first project where Kahn used brick as structural material; he would later use structural brick in some of his most celebrated works, like the library at Phillips Exeter Academy.
Ten years after he used brick arches designed with Raj’s assistance, Kahn famously stated, “You say to brick, ‘What do you want, brick?’ Brick says to you, ‘I like an arch.'” Nonetheless, no major writing on Kahn’s work in India cites Raj’s contributions to IIM’s renowned design.
Back in my hometown, St Marc’s designers understood that a tropical rainstorm could strike at any moment. So, rather than enclose the chapel and block out the environment, water is allowed in, filling the concrete channels and the air with sound as it is dutifully drained away. An engineer, likely Filipino, understood that supporting a large concrete roof with a single column on an active volcano subject to regular earthquakes and typhoons required certain structural gymnastics.
> We must not forget the impact of local architects and engineers, who were overlooked even in their own time
>
>
> First, the roof tapers up towards the edges, intensifying the sense of a “floating” structure while minimizing its weight. Second, the roof cantilevers both forward and backwards, reducing the amount of torque affecting the column. Third, the large crucifix stabilizes the column with its own weight, a lot like the spires atop a gothic cathedral’s flying buttresses.
The prevailing story of tropical modernism in the Global South has long overlooked the contributions of local architects and engineers, writes Mohamed Ismail.
**Growing up on Mount Makiling in Los Baños, Philippines, each day I would drive by a strange, enchanting open-air structure called St Marc’s Chapel.** What always struck me was the concrete roof: bisected by a long, narrow skylight and practically floating in midair, its only support is a single crucifix column.
Beneath the concrete canopy were concrete benches that seemed to have grown from the earth, full of local shell and stone aggregate. An organic web of water channels snaked between the benches, feeding into a small pond just beyond the roof’s cover.
> When I tried learning who created this modernist gem, I hit a block
>
>
Before I studied architecture and knew what to call the chapel’s style, I became enamored with the care and expertise of local tropical modernism.
But when I tried learning who created this modernist gem, I hit a block. The architect was most likely the brilliant Filipino architect Leandro Locsin, who designed the National Arts Center down the road, but it could also have been famed Filipino abstractionist Vicente Manansala, known for his cubist paintings depicting contemporary life in the Philippines. It’s difficult to know for sure, and no publication on tropical modernism I’ve read has the answer.
Why is there no information available, if such big names were potentially attached to this project? The likely answer is: because they were Filipino.
Tropical modernism adapted the inaccurately titled “international” modernism of the Global North to the climate and constraints of the Global South. The style’s name emerged in the 1940s and ’50s when Western designers such as Jane Drew and Maxwell Fry used modern materials like steel, concrete and glass in colonized regions throughout Africa, Asia and Latin America.
When they struggled to adapt industrialized construction materials and methods to regions with high temperatures, humidity and heavy rainfall, they borrowed from local expertise and traditional construction practices to design iconic regional architecture. However, when describing the achievements of tropical modernism, the role of the “local” is often ignored, perpetuating an incomplete narrative of tropical modernism as a unidirectional transfer of knowledge from the Global North to the Global South.
> Architecture’s modernist canon largely ignores the local designers that made these structures possible
>
>
Tropical modernism involved countless designers, builders and engineers, yet the names most identified with this movement were traditionally Western: Le Corbusier, Louis Kahn and Drew, among others. Some of the movement’s most inspiring works were realized when former colonies gained their independence, declaring their newfound position on the global stage with grand concrete structures rivaling the most awe-inspiring works of engineering in the Global North. But, somehow, architecture’s modernist canon largely ignores the local designers that made these structures possible.
The value of tropical modernism’s local architects and engineers was discounted even at the time of their contributions. During the construction of the International Rice Research Institute’s research campus and staff housing (my childhood home in the Philippines), the Ford Foundation insisted on hiring American architect Ralph Walker to oversee the efforts of Filipino architects Alfredo J Luz and Carlos D Arguelles. Upon arrival, Walker was so impressed with the work Luz and Arguelles had already done, he exclaimed, “These boys are good. I wish I had them in my shop in New York!”
It didn’t always go that way. In post-independence India, structural engineer Mahendra Raj worked on many of the greatest examples of Indian modernism. Famously, prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru asked lauded Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier to design the capital for the new state of Punjab: Chandigarh. Raj got his start resolving Le Corbusier’s unrealistic designs for construction in an Indian context.
In an interview with architect Stephane Paumier, Raj described how when he and his supervisor suggested changes to Le Corbusier’s designs to make them constructible, Le Corbusier turned on them, saying, “Look what is happening… all this because your engineers do not know how to design!”
> There has always been a bidirectional transfer of knowledge between the Global North and Global South
>
>
When American architect Kahn worked on the Ahmedabad campus of the Indian Institute of Management (IIM) with Pritzker Prize-winning Indian architect BV Doshi, Raj was, again, a young local engineer helping resolve the foreigner’s grand desires. Raj stated during an interview with Hans Ulrich Obrist that Kahn felt “we didn’t know the art of working with concrete,” so Kahn insisted on using brick made from local clays.
This was despite Raj and Doshi’s complaints that large brick structures were difficult to maintain, would not provide the large open spaces needed for a university, and would not survive very long in the earthquake-prone state of Gujarat. Ultimately, Raj and Doshi convinced Kahn to adopt a concrete-brick hybrid structure, resulting in iconic architectural elements like the thick buttressed walls used throughout the campus and the concrete ties that made Kahn’s impossible circular arches a reality.
While tropical modernism is often described as the gift of benevolent foreign designers to local builders, there has always been a bidirectional transfer of knowledge between the Global North and Global South. IIM was the first project where Kahn used brick as structural material; he would later use structural brick in some of his most celebrated works, like the library at Phillips Exeter Academy.
Ten years after he used brick arches designed with Raj’s assistance, Kahn famously stated, “You say to brick, ‘What do you want, brick?’ Brick says to you, ‘I like an arch.'” Nonetheless, no major writing on Kahn’s work in India cites Raj’s contributions to IIM’s renowned design.
Back in my hometown, St Marc’s designers understood that a tropical rainstorm could strike at any moment. So, rather than enclose the chapel and block out the environment, water is allowed in, filling the concrete channels and the air with sound as it is dutifully drained away. An engineer, likely Filipino, understood that supporting a large concrete roof with a single column on an active volcano subject to regular earthquakes and typhoons required certain structural gymnastics.
> We must not forget the impact of local architects and engineers, who were overlooked even in their own time
>
>
First, the roof tapers up towards the edges, intensifying the sense of a “floating” structure while minimizing its weight. Second, the roof cantilevers both forward and backwards, reducing the amount of torque affecting the column. Third, the large crucifix stabilizes the column with its own weight, a lot like the spires atop a gothic cathedral’s flying buttresses.
Finally, the flaring concrete base, which the benches appear to grow from, provides a large counterbalance hidden in the ground. All this made sense to me only after years of engineering and architecture education, yet the wonder has stuck with me since childhood. That the genius minds behind it have not received any proper acknowledgment is a travesty.
To fully understand the works of tropical modernists in the Global South, we must not forget the impact of local architects and engineers, who were overlooked even in their own time. Their recognition is long overdue.
Mohamed Ismail is an assistant professor of architecture at the University of Virginia School of Architecture, where he directs the Open Structures Research Group. He is a public voices fellow with The OpEd Project.
The photo is by Mohamed Ismail.
**Dezeen In Depth**
If you enjoy reading Dezeen’s interviews, opinions and features, subscribe to Dezeen In Depth. Sent on the last Friday of each month, this newsletter provides a single place to read about the design and architecture stories behind the headlines.
The prevailing story of tropical modernism in the Global South has long overlooked the contributions of local architects and engineers, writes Mohamed Ismail.
Growing up on Mount Makiling in Los Baños, Philippines, each day I would drive by a strange, enchanting open-air structure called St Marc’s Chapel. What always struck me was the concrete roof: bisected by a long, narrow skylight and practically floating in midair, its only support is a single crucifix column.
Beneath the concrete canopy were concrete benches that seemed to have grown from the earth, full of local shell and stone aggregate. An organic web of water channels snaked between the benches, feeding into a small pond just beyond the roof’s cover.
When I tried learning who created this modernist gem, I hit a block
Before I studied architecture and knew what to call the chapel’s style, I became enamored with the care and expertise of local tropical modernism.
But when I tried learning who created this modernist gem, I hit a block. The architect was most likely the brilliant Filipino architect Leandro Locsin, who designed the National Arts Center down the road, but it could also have been famed Filipino abstractionist Vicente Manansala, known for his cubist paintings depicting contemporary life in the Philippines. It’s difficult to know for sure, and no publication on tropical modernism I’ve read has the answer.
Why is there no information available, if such big names were potentially attached to this project? The likely answer is: because they were Filipino.
Tropical modernism adapted the inaccurately titled “international” modernism of the Global North to the climate and constraints of the Global South. The style’s name emerged in the 1940s and ’50s when Western designers such as Jane Drew and Maxwell Fry used modern materials like steel, concrete and glass in colonized regions throughout Africa, Asia and Latin America.
When they struggled to adapt industrialized construction materials and methods to regions with high temperatures, humidity and heavy rainfall, they borrowed from local expertise and traditional construction practices to design iconic regional architecture. However, when describing the achievements of tropical modernism, the role of the “local” is often ignored, perpetuating an incomplete narrative of tropical modernism as a unidirectional transfer of knowledge from the Global North to the Global South.
Architecture’s modernist canon largely ignores the local designers that made these structures possible
Tropical modernism involved countless designers, builders and engineers, yet the names most identified with this movement were traditionally Western: Le Corbusier, Louis Kahn and Drew, among others. Some of the movement’s most inspiring works were realized when former colonies gained their independence, declaring their newfound position on the global stage with grand concrete structures rivaling the most awe-inspiring works of engineering in the Global North. But, somehow, architecture’s modernist canon largely ignores the local designers that made these structures possible.
The value of tropical modernism’s local architects and engineers was discounted even at the time of their contributions. During the construction of the International Rice Research Institute’s research campus and staff housing (my childhood home in the Philippines), the Ford Foundation insisted on hiring American architect Ralph Walker to oversee the efforts of Filipino architects Alfredo J Luz and Carlos D Arguelles. Upon arrival, Walker was so impressed with the work Luz and Arguelles had already done, he exclaimed, “These boys are good. I wish I had them in my shop in New York!”
It didn’t always go that way. In post-independence India, structural engineer Mahendra Raj worked on many of the greatest examples of Indian modernism. Famously, prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru asked lauded Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier to design the capital for the new state of Punjab: Chandigarh. Raj got his start resolving Le Corbusier’s unrealistic designs for construction in an Indian context.
In an interview with architect Stephane Paumier, Raj described how when he and his supervisor suggested changes to Le Corbusier’s designs to make them constructible, Le Corbusier turned on them, saying, “Look what is happening… all this because your engineers do not know how to design!”
There has always been a bidirectional transfer of knowledge between the Global North and Global South
When American architect Kahn worked on the Ahmedabad campus of the Indian Institute of Management (IIM) with Pritzker Prize-winning Indian architect BV Doshi, Raj was, again, a young local engineer helping resolve the foreigner’s grand desires. Raj stated during an interview with Hans Ulrich Obrist that Kahn felt “we didn’t know the art of working with concrete,” so Kahn insisted on using brick made from local clays.
This was despite Raj and Doshi’s complaints that large brick structures were difficult to maintain, would not provide the large open spaces needed for a university, and would not survive very long in the earthquake-prone state of Gujarat. Ultimately, Raj and Doshi convinced Kahn to adopt a concrete-brick hybrid structure, resulting in iconic architectural elements like the thick buttressed walls used throughout the campus and the concrete ties that made Kahn’s impossible circular arches a reality.
While tropical modernism is often described as the gift of benevolent foreign designers to local builders, there has always been a bidirectional transfer of knowledge between the Global North and Global South. IIM was the first project where Kahn used brick as structural material; he would later use structural brick in some of his most celebrated works, like the library at Phillips Exeter Academy.
Ten years after he used brick arches designed with Raj’s assistance, Kahn famously stated, “You say to brick, ‘What do you want, brick?’ Brick says to you, ‘I like an arch.'” Nonetheless, no major writing on Kahn’s work in India cites Raj’s contributions to IIM’s renowned design.
Back in my hometown, St Marc’s designers understood that a tropical rainstorm could strike at any moment. So, rather than enclose the chapel and block out the environment, water is allowed in, filling the concrete channels and the air with sound as it is dutifully drained away. An engineer, likely Filipino, understood that supporting a large concrete roof with a single column on an active volcano subject to regular earthquakes and typhoons required certain structural gymnastics.
We must not forget the impact of local architects and engineers, who were overlooked even in their own time
First, the roof tapers up towards the edges, intensifying the sense of a “floating” structure while minimizing its weight. Second, the roof cantilevers both forward and backwards, reducing the amount of torque affecting the column. Third, the large crucifix stabilizes the column with its own weight, a lot like the spires atop a gothic cathedral’s flying buttresses.
Finally, the flaring concrete base, which the benches appear to grow from, provides a large counterbalance hidden in the ground. All this made sense to me only after years of engineering and architecture education, yet the wonder has stuck with me since childhood. That the genius minds behind it have not received any proper acknowledgment is a travesty.
To fully understand the works of tropical modernists in the Global South, we must not forget the impact of local architects and engineers, who were overlooked even in their own time. Their recognition is long overdue.
Mohamed Ismail is an assistant professor of architecture at the University of Virginia School of Architecture, where he directs the Open Structures Research Group. He is a public voices fellow with The OpEd Project.
The photo is by Mohamed Ismail.
Dezeen In Depth
If you enjoy reading Dezeen’s interviews, opinions and features, subscribe to Dezeen In Depth. Sent on the last Friday of each month, this newsletter provides a single place to read about the design and architecture stories behind the headlines.
