Alvar Aalto - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvar_Aalto
Hugo Alvar Henrik Aalto (3 February 1898 – 11 May 1976) was a Finnish architect and designer, as well as a sculptor and painter. His work includes architecture ...Alvar Aalto MUSEO
www.alvaraalto.fi/
Offers a biography, bibliography and list of the Finnish architect's buildings, as well as information on the Alto archives, museum and academy.In English - Alvar Aalto MUSEUM
www.alvaraalto.fi/index_en.htm
Alvar Aalto Foundation receives a generous grant to conserve Paimio Sanatorium. 1; 2; 3; 4. Retrieving RSS feed(s). Retrieving RSS feed(s). All current news.Alvar Aalto | ArchDaily
www.archdaily.com/tag/alvar-aalto
The Alvar Aalto Symposium gathers together top names in contemporary architecture. This year's international figures include American architect Greg Lynn, ...「Alvar Aalto 所秉持『人本為主』和『與大自然融合』的設計精神,是值得我們用不同的觀點再次去體會的。」
這是 Vitra Design Museum 館長兼 Alvar Aalto 回顧展策展人的 Jochen Eisenbrand,談到這位北歐設計之父留給世人設計啟發上的描述。而就 Alvar Aalto 自身來說,透過觀察、旅行、影像與藝術的薰陶,讓他不但更加熟悉光線和空間的掌握,也更深信「建築」與「藝術」是密不可分地相互影響著;因此,Alvar Aalto 在從古典主義走向現代功能主義的過程中,才能發揮與眾不同的創意,進而無違和地處理並使用自然材質。當然,Alvar Aalto 最為人津津樂道的典範之一:為建築量身打造家具,「讓日常生活中更為美好」,更是他在成立 artek 品牌時所傳達的中心思想。這也是為什麼此次回顧展的核心主題──「第二自然」(Second Nature),是如此貼切地呼應了 Alvar Aalto 在設計上的不朽成就。
說了那麼多,你只需要知道的一點,就是 MOT/TIMES 特派記者這次親臨展場要讓設計迷們大飽眼福!從熟到不能再熟的設計作品,再到鮮為人知的手稿、繪畫和建築模型中,一同帶領大家走進北歐設計之父 Alvar Aalto 眼中的「第二自然」:http://goo.gl/GvwOLa
北歐現代主義之父 Alvar Aalto 堪稱是芬蘭國寶建築師,不過對芬蘭人來說,Alvar Aalto 雖是芬蘭之光,但更像是揮之不去的歷史包袱,因為芬蘭當地超過 80 棟的 Aalto 建築作品,居然讓芬蘭人因被過度包圍而無感,甚至還抱怨:「拜託來點不一樣的,別又是 Alvar Aalto 的設計了!」
雖然小編很想對芬蘭人說:「拜託你們才身在福中不知福」,但為了一探究竟,MOT TIMES 決定將目光移到 Aalto 的成長之地──芬蘭中部的 Jyväskylä,畢竟要瞭解一個人,就要去他生長的地方。而我們這次不但探訪當地著名的 Alvar Aalto 博物館,也特地專訪館長 Tommi Lindh,他不僅是 Alvar Aalto 專家、又是芬蘭在地人,若想打聽芬蘭人對 Aalto 不為人知的真心話,問他就對了!http://goo.gl/nmHh6D
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Vitra Design Museum 經典 Alvar Aalto 回顧展──帶你一覽北歐設計之父眼中的「第二自然」 - MOT/TIMES線上誌
若說在德國 Vitra Design Museum 所舉辦的「Alvar Aalto 展」是個回顧展,那麼展覽主題:「Second Nature」則表達了此展用有別以往的角度和深度,再次展現芬蘭國寶級設計大師 Alvar Aalto,其建築、家具、玻璃器皿等創作上的歷練和成就。這次 MOT/TIMES 特派記者深入直擊的展出內容中,除了設計迷早已熟悉且獨具特色的有機主義作品,還有鮮為人知的手稿、繪畫、建築和都市建構藍圖;而讓此展覽更顯特別之處,則是館長兼策展人的 Jochen Eisenbrand,邀請了德國攝影師 Armin Linke,特為此展親往拍攝 Alvar Aalto 多件至今仍完…
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"For Judd what mattered was the placement of these pieces, very deliberately sandwiched between walls, floor and ceiling. There is nothing inherently magical about any of these units. This is one of the very important contributions that Judd's art makes. Its really about space as much as it is about object." Ann Temkin, Chief Curator of Painting and Sculpture, on artist Donald Judd, who was born this day in 1928. Judd will be the subject of a MoMA retrospective in fall 2017.http://bit.ly/1Kas9Mr
[Donald Judd. "Untitled (Stack)." 1967. The Museum of Modern Art, New York. © Judd Foundation, licensed by VAGA, New York]
SoHo Home and Studio
Critic’s Notebook
The Artist’s Force Field, Frozen in Time
Suzanne DeChillo/The New York Times
Donald Judd’s library, with his drawing pencils, stones and Alvar Aalto furniture, at 101 Spring Street in SoHo. Starting on Monday, the restored building will be opened to small group tours. More Photos »
Donald Judd - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_JuddDonald Clarence Judd (June 3, 1928 – February 12, 1994) was an American artist associated with minimalism (a term he nonetheless stridently disavowed).
By ROBERTA SMITH
Published: May 30, 2013
“Things that exist exist,” the Minimalist sculptor Donald Judd
once wrote, “and everything is on their side.” His words are in a sense
the credo of an empiricist, which was Judd’s preferred description of
himself. He disdained the term Minimalist, along with the whole idea of
art movements.
Multimedia
Judd, who died in 1994
at the age of 65, didn’t believe in the afterlife, but he did believe
in his art and his legacy. So it is hard not to imagine some kind of
Judd spirit approving when 101 Spring Street,
the five-story 19th-century cast-iron building in SoHo where he lived
and worked off and on for 25 years, opens for small public tours on
Monday, his 85th birthday. Its inauguration can only be good for art,
design and architecture in New York City and elsewhere.
Spring Street is once again almost precisely as Judd left it, after a
painstaking three-year renovation, at a cost of $23 million, that has
included extensive repairs to the cast-iron facade, new double-pane
windows and frames (in a building that is mostly windows), the
installation of climate control and adjustments to meet fire and safety
regulations. Various pieces of Judd’s art, as well as that of artists he
admired — Dan Flavin, Claes Oldenburg, John Chamberlain, Frank Stella
and Larry Bell — remain exactly where he placed them. So does the
furniture — most of it by Alvar Aalto, Gerrit Rietveld and Judd himself —
and the kitchen utensils, stacked dinner plates and rows of ceramic
bowls and glasses. African sculptures line the five-story stairwell,
which Judd left largely untouched.
Astoundingly, given the generations of artists that New York has
nurtured, the Judd building is the first fully preserved artist’s
house-museum in Manhattan and only the second in the city as a whole. (The other, in Staten Island, is the home of the documentary photographer Alice Austen,
who died in 1952.) Its preservation and elaborate rehabilitation
reflect the obstinance and inspired dedication of the artist’s son and
daughter, Flavin and Rainer Judd, now 45 and 42. They refused to listen
when advised to sell Spring Street to settle the debts of Judd’s messy
estate and to support the larger concentration of Judd’s many activities in Marfa, Tex.
— his art, extensive collections and immense library, as well as the
several buildings he redesigned, turning them, he rightly claimed, into
architecture.
But Spring Street is the template for all things Marfa, and New York is
where Judd became an artist. It is more than right that the city should
have its own, more compressed, equally revelatory Judd environment.
After all, Judd’s many interests — art, design, visual culture — are
expressed most fully and accessibly by the spaces in which he lived and
worked. Spending time in them looking at the art, the everyday objects
and his deliberate arrangement of everything can be a life-changing
experience.
That totality changed my life when I first encountered it as a
Midwestern college student in the fall of 1968. I suspect it will
similarly affect others, starting on Monday. (Reservations can be made
at juddfoundation.org; admission is $25; $12.50 for students.)
I met Judd while participating in the Whitney Museum’s fledging
independent-study program, and I ended up writing my senior thesis on
his decadelong evolution from painting into the realm of three
dimensions. He was the first prominent artist I had ever known; his
work, the first contemporary art I had ever tried to understand and
write about.
I didn’t understand much at that point or write very well about it. But I
got something immediate and irrevocable when I first visited the small
loft at Park Avenue South and 19th Street — now replaced by a Gwathmey
Siegel monstrosity — where he lived at that time with his wife, Julie
Finch, and Flavin, then 9 months old. Just about every object in sight
held my attention, whether it was a kitchen pot or the bead-encrusted
gold box with a knife piercing one corner, a work by Lucas Samaras
placed (then as now) at one corner of his bed. A cactus garden set in
big, shallow, galvanized-iron pans signaled his affinity for the
Southwest. (He much preferred the crisp distinctions of that area’s
topography and flora to the blending greens of the Northeast.)
Every object chez Judd had a kind of strength of personality or
presence, as if it had been carefully scrutinized before being let in
the door, which it had. This sense of scrutiny helped me not only to
understand Judd’s work; it also clarified something in myself. I liked
looking at things, all kinds of things, analyzing them, figuring out
what was good, what worked and why.
The Whitney semester salvaged my college career by setting my sights on
New York and its art world. To research my paper, I interviewed Judd
extensively, and for the next few years he was a good friend and mentor,
and for some time after that, I was an unabashed Juddite. Occasionally
during that semester I accompanied him on trips to his fabricator,
Bernstein Brothers, an industrial metal shop in Long Island City,
Queens. Once or twice I went with him to 101 Spring Street — in what was
then called the Cast-Iron District — which he had just purchased. As
the building was being cleared out, he was moving things in. I remember
standing in the building’s filthy basement unrolling his paintings from
the 1950s, which seemed like ancient history.
When I returned the following fall, after graduation, Judd and his
family were living, or at least camping out, at 101 Spring Street. Soon
he began a series of improvements and adjustments, some of which I
witnessed firsthand while working as his secretary and later on his
catalogue raisonné in the early 1970s. They would continue until his
death.
Judd once characterized himself as having been “born attracted to
space,” and 101 Spring Street was his first chance to show what he
meant: art and other things worth looking at deserve to be seen,
properly placed in the proper amount of space; space is interesting in
itself, whether as open landscape or apportioned by architecture. The
building intensified his already sharp preservationist instincts, which
gave priority to existing structures and the natural landscape. He
disliked most Earthworks as violations of nature and preferred improving
existing buildings to erecting new ones. “I’ve never built anything on
new land,” he once wrote proudly.
Judd was especially attracted to the cast-iron buildings that dominated
SoHo (a term he hated almost as much as Minimalism) for the incipient
modernity of their uncluttered lines, spaces and simple method of
fabrication: their iron parts were sand-cast in multiples and assembled.
Judd must also have admired 101 Spring Street’s repeating forms. Its
many windows and the five light-filled spaces that they sheath
corroborated his favored compositional approach of “one thing after
another.” He conceived of each floor as a single, unobstructed space
dedicated to a single activity: sleeping (fifth), working (third) and
eating (second). He viewed the fourth floor, which contains tables and
benches of his design, as a kind of parlor.
Judd’s plans changed as the building evolved. When the studio was being
plastered, he decided that he liked the rough undercoat; the white
finishing layer was never applied. His alterations were subtle but
striking: he opened the fourth floor to the stairwell and — perhaps his
most brilliant addition — covered the ceiling with the same kind of wood
used in the floor, implying a planar volume often found in his
sculptures. He also experimented; for a while in the 1970s the
building’s elevator shaft was painted his signature color, cadmium-red
light, before reverting back to white.
Long before he started seriously designing furniture, you can see that
the line between art and functioning object blur at Spring Street. For
example, on the second floor, some of the kitchen shelves progress from 2
to 12 inches high in increments of 2 inches. The design is a simplified
form of the progressions he used in some of his wall sculptures — and
who knew that a two-inch-high shelf was perfect for storing cutlery?
On the fifth floor he designed and built a small wood and plaster
structure to serve as a walk-in closet/dressing room. It has
stainless-steel sinks (never hooked up) whose elliptical shape and
slanted bottoms echo a circular, site-specific sculpture he made for
display on the ramp of the Guggenheim. Overhead, a sleeping loft for
Flavin has one of my favorite design touches: a ladder with footholds
requiring the children to face inward while ascending or descending.
Other signs of fatherly attention include, in a shelf-lined nook on the
third floor, a collection of his children’s grade-school efforts in
ceramics.
The resurrection of 101 Spring Street is Flavin and Rainer Judd’s
hard-won tribute to their father, and a testament to their own
perseverance. It may be something he could not have quite imagined, and
he probably couldn’t have pulled it off, given his disdain for red tape.
It pays homage to his life and vision, but it is not just a shrine.
Beyond illuminating Judd’s exacting sensibility, the building and its
contents offer a multitude of lessons in looking, pure and simple, at
things that exist, in space, and their potent effect on our lives.
This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:
Correction: May 30, 2013
Donald Judd’s SoHo Home and Studio
Roberta Smith writes: “Spring Street is once again almost precisely as
Judd left it, after a painstaking three-year renovation, at a cost of
$23 million, that has included extensive repairs to the cast-iron
facade, new double-pane windows and frames (in a building that is mostly
windows), the installation of climate control and adjustments to meet
fire and safety regulations.”
African sculptures line the five-story stairwell, which Judd left largely untouched.
Carl Andre’s “Manifest Destiny,” installed on the first floor.
Judd conceived of each floor as a single, unobstructed space dedicated
to a single activity: sleeping (fifth), working (third) and eating
(second).
The ladder Judd designed for his children’s sleeping loft on the fifth floor.
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