Rising over global cities, the modern skyscraper has long been a symbol of economic growth and environmental decline. For years, they have been reviled by environmentalists for being uncontrolled energy consumers. Malaysian architect Kenneth Yeang acknowledged the skyscraper as a necessityin modern cities and adopted a pragmatic approach to greening the otherwise unsustainable building typology. Yeang’s bioclimatic skyscrapers blend the economics of space with sustainability and improved living standards.
The Philippines' history and cultural background are continually reflected in the architectural landscape throughout the country, with its structures and dwellings harboring a handful of influences from the nations that once purveyed the island.
When we talk about the topic of Filipino architecture and dwellings, more often than not, we may think of the first known Filipino home: Bahay Kubo. The Bahay Kubo is a small hut comprising nipa, bamboo, and other indigenous materials. It is often times that many citizens still choose to adopt this style of habitation, however, over time, the concept of the nipa hut has evolved into a more modern structure.
The Filipinos believe that man and woman first emerged from the nodes of a bamboo stalk. The Chinese view the caneas a symbol of their culture and values, reciting “there is no place to live without bamboo”. The plant is a symbol of prosperity in Japan and friendship in India. Along with myths and stories, strong structures made of bamboo flourished in pre-modernAsia. Built forms varied across the changing landscapes of Eastern countries, all sharing one aspect in common - a respect for natural ecosystems.
The history and culture of the Philippines are reflected in its architectural heritage, with numerous influences from other nations paving the way for the contemporary designs we see today, a mixité of cultural influences amongst Western-style buildings. Philippine architecture has grown along with the progress of the nation and its people, but memories of a glorious past are still embedded within the nation’s history.
To speak of Paul Rudolph’s illustrious career is to trace a grand arc stretching from the 1940s to the 1990s. More often than not, the popular narrative begins with his student days at Harvard under the tutelage of Walter Gropius, touches upon his earliest, much-loved Florida beach houses, circles around his eventual break from the rigidity of both the Sarasota School and the International Style, and finally races towards the apex: his chairmanship of the Yale School of Architecture, and the concurrent shift to a Brutalist architectural style characterized by monumental forms, rugged concrete, and interwoven, multilevelled spaces awash with a remarkable interplay of light. Then comes the fall from grace: the beloved Yale Art and Architecture Building went up in flames just as the architecture profession began to question modernist ideals, and eventually Postmodernism was ushered in. Flickering, sputtering, Rudolph's grand narrative arc lurched towards Southeast Asia, bearing away the “martyred saint.” Save for several scattered commissions in the United States, Rudolph spent the last two decades of his life building abroad, mostly across Hong Kong, Indonesia, and Singapore, until his death in 1997.
But of course, time and again, historians have sought to challenge the myth of the failed architect by rereading his understudied work from the late years. Adding to this growing corpus of fresh research and alternate perspectives is architectural photographer Darren Soh’s ongoing project documenting—so far—three of Rudolph’s major works in Southeast Asia: The Colonnade (1986) and The Concourse (1994) in Singapore, and the Intiland Tower (1997) in Surabaya, Indonesia.
