When we think of modern architecture, we often think first of what’s called the International Style, whose minimalist, rectilinear, decoration-free forms were championed by the likes of Walter Gropius, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, and Le Corbusier. Though they did build projects all over the world, that isn’t exactly the reason for the name. In fact, the International Style represents an attempt to develop a culturally neutral aesthetic for all built environments, deployable equally in Europe, Asia, the Americas, and everywhere else besides. That pretense to universality may count as the most utopian aspect of an avowedly utopian movement — and the one whose impracticality came soonest to light.
Before he became Brazil’s most famous architect, Oscar Niemeyer subscribed to the principles of the International Style. But then, as an acolyte of Le Corbusier, he could hardly have done otherwise. When the great man came to Rio de Janeiro in 1936 to design the new Ministry of Education and Health, Niemeyer was hired to work on the project.
The experience seems to have done its part to convince him that the International Style wasn’t as international as all that, and furthermore, that its rigid dictates would have to be bent to suit his homeland. This bending would, in a sense, be literal: like Frank Gehry or Zaha Hadid after him, Niemeyer devoted his architecture to the pursuit of the curve, inspired by examples seen in everything from the mountains of Brazil’s landscape to the bodies of its women.
In 1956, the newly elected president Juscelino Kubitschek immediately realized the plan, written into the country’s constitution long before, of building a new central city to relieve Rio of its status as the capital. Christened Brasília, it was to be constructed on a vast, empty plateau entirely along rational, modernist guidelines, with defined districts organized along a cruciform city plan often likened to a bird or an airplane and monumental structures meant to project a forward-looking image. Niemeyer was selected to design those structures, which immediately became elements of the city’s visual signature upon its inauguration in 1960: ever since, seldom has a photograph failed to include the twin towers and domes of his National Congress or the Space-Age crown of thorns atop his Cathedral of Brasília.
The both administrative and otherworldly form of central Brasília remains alluring, though the city itself began drawing criticism even before its completion. “This is what you get when perfectly decent, intelligent and talented men start thinking in terms of space, rather than place, and about single rather than multiple meanings,” declared a frowning Robert Hughes in his 1980 TV series The Shock of the New. “It’s what you get when you design for political aspirations and not real human needs. You get miles of jerry-built platonic nowhere infested with Volkswagens.” Indeed, the domination of car infrastructure and strict separation of functions hardly proved conducive to the spontaneous, convivial aspects of Brazilian life. But residents and visitors alike tend to report that Brasília’s urban design has been improved as its population has grown, and massively, with commensurate improvements to its quality of life over the decades. It may not inspire many bossa nova songs, but the capital nevertheless reflects a genuine facet of what Brazil is — and what it once dreamed of becoming.
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Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
