—Tim Makower, architect
I draw anything I find interesting; it could be a chimney pot at an angle or a piece of scaffolding. Subliminally, everybody is like this, I think
By Anand Holla
It’s not too hard to see. Almost everything Tim Makower does or surrounds himself with is loaded with a definite, deeper purpose. That means design thoughts born as choreographed lines on blank sheets of paper are as studied as his choice of workplace.
Overlooking the Corniche, Makower Architects’ bare, new office at the Regency Business Centre is part of Old Doha, located right in the centre or “soul” of the city, near the Museum of Islamic Art, near Souq Waqif, and perhaps most importantly for Makower, “connected to the sea, and to the new, growing city.” It’s also a quick walk from the K108 hotel where the maverick architect-urbanist stays for half of the month that he leaves London for Doha.
“We have been busy doing very exciting things,” he says, settling down for a chat, resting his tireless hands on a large table that he has designed. Built of mahogany and oak wood, it also happens to encapsulate a metaphorical snapshot of a nation. “This table tells the Qatari story of cracked Earth,” he says, tracing the striking contours and texture of the table top with his fingers, “This is like a jigsaw puzzle of cracked earth.”
“Feeling” the table, then, is as important as its functionality. Clearly, for Makower, whose exhibitions in Doha have ranged from creating jigsaws of the city to showcasing his 100 Moleskine sketchbooks full of ideas and musings (which is the ongoing 100 Thoughts: Chapter 1 exhibition at VCU-Q), savouring the city is key.
In fact, his new, soon-to-be-launched book that explores scale, how it is manifested in cities and the difference it makes, is aptly titled Touching the City. The title, Makower points out, suggests that the city “is indeed something physical, something we can touch and be touched by, alive and ever-changing.”
In his 28 years of work at architecture and urban planning firm Allies and Morrison, Makower was involved in bringing structures such as Qatar National Archive in Doha and Bankside 123 in London to life, and masterplanning the Msheireb Project and Sidra Village Doha. “The Amiri Diwan, the Amiri barracks and the Qatar National Archive are probably the three most buildings I have ever done,” he says.
Makower’s pursuit of excellence is far from over though. The current Qatar projects of his two-year-old firm span from the ambitious Al Rayyan Gate Masterplan and heritage-led regeneration projects to the Qatar Bio-Hub and an eco-villa.
His boundless energy complemented with an untiring mind that routinely cross-references and draws swathes of wisdom from his experiences as a cultural polymath makes for compelling conversation. Excerpts:
Your approach to design is largely influenced by the place it is set in. So how exactly does this cracked Earth table represent the city?
It’s to do with pattern language — the patterns of a built environment which work at all scales. You can see an analogy between the pattern of a cracked earth and the pattern of a city. Of course, the city is an organic entity. Even highly planned cities aren’t fully planned. Cities have a life of their own because we are like the cyanobacteria, which are these very important micro-organisms that oxygenated the universe and have also made the Earth crack. While they are very much present in the desert climate of the Gulf, in Qatar, particularly, they have become an incredibly important part of the ecology. When the films on the sand get wet due to rain, the cyanobacteria cluster together and form surfaces, which crack. That’s why the Earth cracks. It is an analogy for the naturalness of cities and the patterns at all scales.
There’s a line from Christopher Alexander’s book
The answer to that is in two parts — one has to do with scale, and the other is about character, context and connection. Architecture essentially is how things come together. We are very obsessive in getting the detail right — the depth of the window in a wall, or specifically in Qatar, the depth of the recess in plaster work. For instance, putting a standard window in a standard house on a standard street in London could be solid, robust, casting a good shadow, and feeling substantial, or it could be thin.
How do such finer aspects of architecture affect its immediate environment?
A whole street feels different when it has deep window rails because it feels more substantial and it catches the light in a different way. Shaded windows, for instance, perform better, particularly in hot climates like this, than unshaded windows. What we are after is sense a connection — connecting people and places, connecting places together, and connecting scales, large to small. If you find something solid, substantial and delightful, and it weathers and lasts really well over time in its detail, and is part of a city that you walk through, a park of which has a certain view or a hill has a certain incline, that’s the macro structuring of cities.
How much of this can people manage to perceive and understand?
Good cities are made up of quite explicit, intended, carefully structured scale connections. And it’s not just aesthetic or visual alone. You have to go to West Bay to know that there are an awful lot of urban places that are not easy to understand or navigate. They haven’t been structured in that big way as if someone were careful but only at a much smaller scale of structuring a window reveal or a door handle. So what matters is that connected series of scales and caring about each of them in a similar way. That’s the scale connection of design process, and I think, the scale connection of people’s understanding of a city even if they don’t understand it.
What about the second part — connection?
If you are designing something, it’s rather nice if the end result of what you do feels right in its place. Enjoying the fact that a structure is quite alien to where it’s located is fine. But it’s not the norm. It should feel good, natural, right. These are all vague words. But if you achieve that, particularly to people who come from the place — like my primary audience is the Qatari community — you have done well. However, as a foreigner, if we come in with space ships from outer space, fly them in and land them beautifully, that’s not nearly as good, useful appropriate, or sustainable.
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How important is timelessness in architecture?
If one can achieve something that lasts and which is neither old-fashioned nor fashionable, it is timeless. That structure is not just good, and doesn’t just fit today, but it’s better than that. It’s amazing. The intention is to last.
Could you share some instances?
One of the biggest projects I have been involved in the UK was the Blue Fin Building, which sits next to the Tate Modern. It’s very flamboyant and I am proud of it. It has got shimmery blue metal fins, it’s very strong, certainly very arresting when it was made eight years ago and it still is. Will it seem out of date in 10, 50 or 100 years? I don’t think so. Although I am biased, I feel it’s a timeless classic. It’s clever if you can achieve that, or just lucky. But that’s the aim, as opposed to something that looks great this year but feels out of date in five years’ time.
It sure must be hard to achieve that, time and again?
Yes. But if one acts really safe, or in other words, you design something that’s kind of boring, that’s not the answer. It’s easier to do timeless if it’s a bit boring because you don’t notice the building so much.
How do you expect modern architecture to achieve timelessness when technology is increasingly allowing designers to think and execute cool, bizarre structures?
Modern architecture is incredibly exciting and certainly pushes the boundaries. Let’s take two examples of Jean Nouvel here in Doha — the Burj Doha and the National Museum of Qatar that’s under construction. The Burj Doha has a nice curved shape with a funny spike on top, covered in shiny patterns. It’s quite beautiful, and as you get close you see more. It’s an amazing structure to be in, and to look out of. It’s both fashionable and timeless. It’s a timeless classic. The desert rose-styled National Museum is much more gestural, sculptural. Will it achieve timelessness? New York’s Guggenheim Museum by Frank Lloyd Wright was an extreme building in its time. It’s still quite strange, and is definitely timeless. The point is they are such extreme buildings that are done so well that they transcend the danger of seeming out of date.
Your ongoing exhibition at VCU-Q exhibits your moleskin sketchbooks full of scribbles, thoughts, to-do lists. How did the idea come about?
Actually, I was having one of my many mid-life crises. I was about 40, a busy life and spent too much time on the phone. I realised I could make something of what I drew — design drawings, places. I draw anything I find interesting; it could be a chimney pot at an angle or a piece of scaffolding. Subliminally, everybody is like this, I think.
Why do you say that?
People are just living in cities doing their own thing. But it’s all about sensing where you are, and making the most of life. Even if you are an untrained, non-art person, you like something. What is it about a particular bench that you like sitting on in the park? It could be a view, or it could be a feel of gravel under your feet. All these things are about places, and I get even more pleasure if I stop and draw, think, articulate even to myself as to why I like something. I stand there and feel the texture of the city while I am drawing. The combination of smell, sound, feel of air, the feel of a pencil, and what’s one eyes are doing, adds to one’s enjoyment. That’s because life is good. When we are in bad moods, or are feeling numb, then it’s quite easy to miss out on a lot or fail to realise how rich life is.
By that measure, how can a layman enjoy a regular day in Doha, or “touch the city”?
For me, it is to savour the experience. And for everyone, I’d say it’s the same. My mission for design is if I can design a street where somebody notices that it’s a bit out of the ordinary, a bit better. Someone likes the shop at the corner, or the view down the street. That’s when I have achieved something because others are savouring where they are. My favourite metaphor for this is of a 90-year-old granny and her nine-year-old grandchild walking along a street, not talking to each other at all, both have headphones on and are looking at the ground. Or, they could savour where they are, consciously, and probably the enjoyment of life will be more if they do that.
You have said that intensity is your greatest treasure. Why?
I am rather obsessive. If I draw with precise detailing, then it means I care. Back in the early days at Allies and Morrison, we all cared as much about every line on every drawing as we did for the future, about the way things were to be built. If you care that much about everything, it’s much more rewarding. In the end, the built environment is part of everybody’s environment. We all are here only to make the world a better place.
And the same holds true for architecture?
Yes. Architecture which lasts is essentially done well. You can only achieve the best of that through an intensity of thought and infuse intensity into it. This means you do a drawing that really sings of the specialness of your idea, rather than just communicates it in a general sort of cut-and-dry way. It’s worth it. It’s exhausting but it makes things more fun. There’s something deep about getting the most out of life. Should one spend six hours doing an ordinary document or 12 hours doing a special one? The latter is infinitely more worth it, for everybody. And life, as a result, is better.