The legal distinction in the Netherlands between the protection of immovable and movable cultural heritage on the one hand and that of tangible and intangible cultural heritage on the other is confusing and has direct consequences for policy and research in the field of national heritage. It also prevents proper alignment with international regulations such as those of UNESCO's tangible and intangible cultural heritage. With the introduction of the Erfgoedwet (Heritage Act) in 2016, more order was created in the multitude of regulations, methods of protection and subsidies. Nevertheless, the distinction remained, with direct consequences for the optimal preservation of objects in a cultural context. This study of the practices and ethical aspects of the restoration of the Chest of Distress of St. Servatius in Maastricht between 1958 and 1962 explains why it is necessary to examine and protect tangible and intangible cultural heritage conjointly. The Chest of Distress owes its remarkable name to the practice of carrying this reliquary through the streets of Maastricht to pray publicly for protection in times of war, epidemics or other threats to the city. In addition, the Chest of Distress is paraded along with other relics approximately every seven years during the so-called Heiligdomsvaart (Holy Procession). During these public events, the Chest of Distress is surrounded by all kinds of intangible expressions, such as prayers, singing, music, theatrical performances and the wafting of scents such as incense, which all contribute to the total experience. The Erfgoedwet brought greater uniformity to regulations but did not lead to more extensive protection. The policy is primarily aimed at reducing the number of objects that need to be protected and at ‘increasing knowledge and awareness, changing attitudes and improving management standards’. Dutch policy does not go as far as that of the Council of Europe, which ‘recommends that governments, as part of their general policies for the conservation of the built heritage, create conditions to ensure the protection of historic complexes composed of immovable and movable property’. Maintaining rather than expanding the level of protection within the Erfgoedwet can be seen as a missed opportunity. For the time being, therefore, the main focus remains on expanding knowledge in order to better protect tangible and intangible cultural heritage. This expanded knowledge must go beyond the simple provision of information to heritage owners or the creation of a database of protected cultural property. Knowledge enhancement, it is argued here, must be part of a comprehensive strategy to better protect the interconnectedness between tangible and intangible heritage in the future. This article argues that a combination of digital resources can make an important contribution to that strategy. Using a digital 3D reconstruction based on restoration drawings, the Chest of Distress and its restoration history from 1958 to 1962 are examined from multiple perspectives. By placing objects in context in this multidimensional way and linking them to national and international projects focused on research into tangible and intangible heritage, a knowledge architecture is created that contributes to integrated heritage protection.
Dit is de derde editie van de rubriek Afstudeerwerk, dat alle inzendingen voor de KNOB-scriptieprijs 2025 bevat. Inzenders van de afstudeerwerken zijn: Alisha van Heek - Arthur Friederichs - Britt Wouters - Emma Van der Donckt - Femke Van Dycke - Imane Huyghebaert - Isa Walvoort - Liam Borger - Stan Liebrand - Stijn van de Ven - Zomer Zeijlemaker
In the early 20th century, Valkenburgerstraat was the centre of one of the poorest and most densely-populated neighbourhoods of Amsterdam’s Jewish quarter, where large families lived in cramped ‘alley dwellings’. In contrast, in the early 17th century the first occupants of this street on the man-made island of Marken had been wealthy shipbuilders who owned large wharf plots. This article draws on archaeological data from two sites on Valkenburgerstraat in combination with historical records, creating multiple lines of evidence illuminating life on Marken from the late 16th to the 19th century. Marken was one of the shipbuilding islands created by the city extension of 1592. The modern lots on the northern side of Valkenburgerstraat can be traced back to the original 16th-century shipyards. After 1660, maritime activities shifted to a new maritime quarter and the island became a multi-ethnic, predominantly Jewish, residential area. The former wharf parcels were subdivided, and houses were built in the alleys connecting the main street with the water. At the same time, properties encroached on Uilenburgergracht as private land reclamation projects appropriated space from the canal. Archival records provide the names of the occupants in Marken’s alleys, as well as information about their families, religion, occupation and socio-economic position. Connecting these data to the archaeological record offers a unique opportunity to shed light on how different circumstances were reflected in the material culture of these households. Poverty was usually hidden, while material displays often claimed – or attested to – higher status. Despite this, and what is basically a universal urban material culture for each era, the archaeological record can yield criteria for defining poverty by evaluating nuances and significant cultural markers. The finds from two artefact assemblages on Marken reveal a variety of everyday household material culture common in the 18th and early 19th century. Poverty is reflected by the presence of relatively inexpensive ceramics, and signs of extensive use or repair of objects. Jewish ethnicity is reflected in the animal remains, which point to a predominantly kosher diet. While inventories of Jewish residents' possessions include ceremonial objects, such as Sabbath lamps, these were also found hanging in a non-Jewish grocer's shop. Marken was a not exclusively Jewish neighbourhood of low-paid transport workers, tobacco spinners, hawkers and other economically-disadvantaged people. Records reveal the presence of more affluent middle-class residents of non-Jewish backgrounds, such as grocers and innkeepers. On Marken though, the majority were living in poverty in dwellings with the lowest rents in the city. The Valkenburgerstraat excavations documented rows of houses in which large families sometimes shared a space no bigger than 20 square metres. These could be one-room dwellings or tenements in which many rooms, floors and even basements were inserted and rented out for occupation. Built as workers’ cottages in the 17th century, extensive modifications in the 18th and 19th centuries had degraded these dwellings into notorious slums by the 20th century.
Bericht vanuit Bestuur KNOB en Archiefopruiming van oude Bulletins en Over Hollands.
This article examines the formative role of the ‘place function’ of airports in the architectural and spatial development of early airport terminals. The place function is characterized by facilities and spaces not directly related to air transport but intended for visitors. Whereas existing scholarship often interprets airport typology primarily in terms of technological advances in aviation and the changing operational needs of air transport, this study argues that the emergence of civil aviation in the Netherlands between 1920 and 1949 was also deeply shaped by the ambition to cultivate public airmindedness (luchtvaartgezindheid). Because flying remained inaccessible and too costly for most citizens, airports were deliberately promoted as public attractions, functioning as sites of leisure, spectacle and civic education. Using Amsterdam Airport Schiphol as a case study, the article traces how the concept of airmindedness informed the design, use and continual adaptation of Schiphol’s first two permanent terminal buildings (1928–1944 and 1949). Drawing on the Schiphol company archives, the archives of Public Works Amsterdam, municipal council records and diverse visual sources, this study shows how the airport’s architecture responded as much to the demands of visitors as to those of passengers and aircraft operations. The analysis demonstrates that the spatial integration of visitor facilities, such as the inclusion and expansion of terraces, viewing platforms, restaurants for visitors, promenade decks and generous airside glazing, became a defining component of the terminal typology. By the late 1940s, Schiphol’s semi-permanent postwar terminal incorporated this place function from the outset, offering more seating for visitors than for passengers and providing extensive vantage points for viewing airside activities. The article concludes that in the early decades of aviation, airports acquired considerable socio-cultural significance as public venues, and that this meaning directly shaped the architectural evolution of the airport terminal in the Netherlands.
The first building designed by H.P. Berlage (1856-1934) in Indonesia is located in Surabaya. He designed it for the Algemeene Maatschappij van Levensverzekering en Lijfrente (‘de Algemeene’) between 1898 and 1900. It is a striking building, partly due to the tile tableau by Jan Toorop (1858-1928) on the facade and the two entrance sculptures by Joseph Mendes da Costa (1863-1939), from which it derives its current Indonesian nickname: Gedung Singa, the lion building. Architectural historians often consider the building to be of minor importance within Berlages oeuvre. It is mentioned in the literature, albeit with varying qualifications. This article is based on new archival research into the origin and significance of this building, which refutes the previously prevailing view that the design was primarily the work of Marius J. Hulswit (1862-1921). In addition, detailed xamination of historical images has provided new insight into the striking original decoration of the facade. Around 1900, the Algemeene was the largest life insurer in the Netherlands. The Dutch East Indies was their most important market outside the Netherlands, with the cosmopolitan city of Surabaya as their headquarters. Their prominent position was reflected in high-quality ‘promonotianal buildings’ that stood out in the streetscape. The fact that a well-known architect such as Berlage had been commissioned for this purpose only added to this effect. After initially renting an office in the old city’s Chinese quarter, the company sought to erect a building of its own in Surabaya. Contact had already been made with Berlage in 1895, but shortly afterwards the company approached Marius J. Hulswit, a Dutch architect and contractor based in Surabaya. Hulswit submitted his design in 1898. Berlage, adviser to the Algemeene, rejected the design. In addition to practical objections, he had serious objections to the style of the facade design: too European and petty bourgeois. The client followed Berlages advice. Hulswit was thanked and the commission went to Berlage. Berlage drew up a completely new plan. His lack of experience in building in the tropics was compensated for by the necessary know-how within the Algemeene and of his advisers in Surabaya. When, after major delays, W.H. Scheffer, a contractor from The Hague with extensive tropical experience, took on the construction in November 1900, the realization of Berlage’s design gained momentum. The building was completed in May 1902. It contained both familiar Berlage features and stylistic and technical innovations. The admission of light, fresh air and shading made the building tropical-proof, while the decoration contained motifs borrowed from indigenous buildings. Where Toorops tile tableau and Mendes da Costa’s entrance sculptures symbolize the role of the Algemeene as a life insurer in the colony, the integration of indigenous motifs seems to be an early and up to that point unique tribute to Indonesian culture. The building in Surabaya is the first manifestation of the new architectural style that Berlage advocated for the Dutch East Indies, analogous to his ideas for a new architecture in the Netherlands.
Recently, the notion of material harvesting, collection, and reworking has gained significant attention as a crucial step in understanding essential aspects of building culture, particularly in relation to reuse, ma-terial scarcity, or, conversely, material availability. The ‘Recycling Beauty’ exhibition (Fondazione Prada, Milan 2022), which displayed Greek and Roman spolia, marble fragments, and pieces of sculptures placed alongside one other, alluded to practices of appropriation and possession, to the relationship between craftsmen and found resources, and to the need to store and preserve material in times of scarcity or political uncertainty. Similar questions have emerged in Dutch and Belgian contexts, for example, from research into the work of designer Marcel Raymaekers and his way of organizing salvaged materials (Marcel Raymaekers, pioneer in circular architecture, Vai, Antwerp 2023). Besides highlighting the relevance of practices linked to material reuse, exhibitions and installations also make clear by their very organization, how material collections take space and, at the same time, sculpt ever-changing landscapes. Building on these premises, and shifting the focus towards contemporary and less curated cases, this article critically examines the purpose, spatial qualities and configurations of three material storage typologies in the Dutch context – bricks and tiles, soil, and trees – highlighting their pivotal role in relation to material accessibility and availability. These sites, termed ‘material gardens’, are understood as experimental laboratories or ‘banks’, where the notion of availability is translated into the allocation and management of (material) reserves. Though often overlooked and considered marginal, such open spaces are in fact key sites where design and other creative processes are crucially tied to resource allocation and disposal, and impact collective imagination and practices. They are increasingly being positioned at the core of construction and deconstruction processes, raising relevant ecological questions and helping to shape tacit knowledge on material reuse.
In order to gain insight into the specifics of circular architecture as a necessary alternative to contemporary extractive building practices, this article examines the work of Marcel Raymaekers. Between 1962 and 2014, the Belgian architect and trader developed a practice in the reuse of building materials. In the post-war context, in which the construction sector began to rely increasingly on cheap, standardised, industrially produced materials, Raymaekers made a radical choice for alternative elements. His aversion to mass-produced elements stemmed from aesthetic preferences. A preference for sensory experiences as a guideline for living, and a great affinity with Assemblage Art, in which a design process starts from existing materials. His way of working was thus characterised by a totally different notion of 'availability' than is common today. Raymaekers started out as a hunter-gatherer, criss- crossing the country in search of material graveyards and demolition sites. For the first ten years, he worked extensively with materials from industrial waste streams, such as mesh stones (a residual product of sand and gravel extraction) and ship steel (recovered from obsolete ships for the steel processing industry). The immense demolition frenzy of 'Les Trente Glorieuses' also ensured the availability of materials such as bricks and roof tiles, which were recovered and processed in bulk. In addition, many high-quality, unique building components were released, which were finely crafted and ornamented and for which there was no longer any new equivalent on the materials market. In 1972, he founded Queen of the South (QotS), his materials stock and headquarters in Genk. From then on, Raymaekers became a permanent trader-designer. His established network of demolition contractors and wholesalers was crucial in this regard. During his career, he developed close partnerships with players such as reuse wholesaler Spinois and demolition contractors Scheerlinck, Leunen and Vander Elst, each active in their own geographical area and building niche. Raymaekers' architecture became increasingly baroque, but also more homogeneous due to his focus on architectural antiques. QotS was set up as a veritable machine for convincing people of the power of these elements. From the 1980s onwards, the supply of building antiques declined due to the mechanisation of the demolition sector, rising labour costs and the increasing clout of heritage protection. His supply chains came to a standstill. Raymaekers began importing more materials from abroad. His practice became increasingly exclusive, targeting wealthy clients, although he also continued to build for middle-class clients through self-build and long-term construction projects. Eventually, Raymaekers had to go as far as India to find building materials. After 2000, the influx of materials became too expensive and too difficult, and clients began to stay away. In 2014, QotS went bankrupt. Raymaekers' work shows how circular architecture depends on locally anchored supply networks, which are difficult to scale up due to the nature of the urban mine, where a wide variety of materials are released unpredictably, scattered and in small quantities. His practice was also strongly linked to a specific phase in the urbanisation and modernisation process: the period of unbridled demolition of pre-war buildings. Raymaekers' identity as a designer-trader was so intertwined with this period that his business inevitably ceased to exist with the demise of the ideology of progress that had given rise to it. This case study shows that the sustainable matching of supply and demand in second-hand materials will always have to be dynamic.
Review of two books: the first one is written by Onno W. Boers (De Gevelstenen van Amsterda), the second book is written by Peter van Graafeiland (Waar Haarlem in de Gevel Staat).
Located in the centre of Brussels, Pachecolaan 44 is a remarkable sixteen-level office building (thirteen aboveground and three underground). Strategically situated on Brussels’ ring road, it acts as a landmark for the neighbourhood. The building is an eye-catcher owing to the wickerwork pattern of the concrete modules in the elevations. It was designed in 1964 by the architect Marcel Lambrichs and his team for the former Gemeentekrediet (Crédit Communal de Belgique) bank. Pacheco, as the complex was known, provided over six thousand square metres of office space and was the bank’s headquarters until 2015. Its plinth was a mixed-use arcade housing a cinema, restaurants, shops, exhibition space and an auditorium. In the 1970s, this ‘Passage 44’ had a reputation as a vibrant centre of cultural life. Today the tower is home to Belgium’s Immigration Department, while the plinth has been converted into a KU Leuven campus. Pacheco and Passage 44 belong indisputably to Brussels’ collective memory and by extension to that of Belgium, due in part to the well-attended exhibitions and lectures that Gemeentekrediet organized in ‘its’ arcade. The bank presented itself as a socially engaged business and regarded the promotion of art and knowledge as one of its core tasks. In addition, the building’s history is closely tied to post-war developments in the fields of urban planning and architecture in Brussels. Its historical and urban design values were part of the reason why the Gemeentekrediet’s former headquarters was added to the Brussels Capital Region’s official heritage register in 2024. Despite Pacheco’s heritage credentials, it has received very little attention in the literature. By placing Pacheco and Passage 44 in their architectural-historical context once more, this article aims to contribute to knowledge of Brussels’ post-war heritage. It does so by considering two key moments: the original design and construction phase in the 1960s, and the staff restaurant project by the designer Frans L. Van Praet, which was executed around the turn of the century. The works carried out in these two periods can be classified respectively as ‘modern’ and ‘postmodern’. The integration of these antithetical design concepts within the same building complex is unique in the Belgian context. As well as an examination of the past, this article offers an insight into future possibilities for large-scale post-war projects. In light of growing interest in the modern movement and in young heritage, the article considers theory, heritage policy and restoration practice within the Brussels Capital Region. Although young heritage has gained (academic) recognition and legal protection, the translation of theoretical heritage evaluation into restoration practice is faltering. The development of a broader methodology in the field of ‘value mapping’ can offer a solution to this. An analysis of the Pacheco case provides valuable insights of benefit to the sustainability of future projects.
The new arsenal for the ‘Admiralty of the Meuse’, built between 1785 and 1788 on Reuzeneiland on the east side of Rotterdam, was one of the Dutch Republic’s largest structures, yet it has been all but forgotten since it burned to the ground in 1891. Fifteen surviving design drawings by its architect, the Italian Giovanni Giudici (1746-1819), provide insight into the design phases, technical detailing and the evolving design of the facade and interior. The arsenal’s primary function was to store naval weaponry and ship’s supplies. However, its architecture belied this utilitarian purpose. The symmetrical, monumental facade with checked pilaster strips, main floor, balconies and sculptures on the crowning attic block lent the building a palatial aura and explains why it was also known as ‘the Palace’. Giudici’s design differed from Daniël Stalpaert’s seventeenth-century warehouses for the Dutch East India Company (VOC) and the Amsterdam Admiralty. Although also of monumental design, their warehouse function was clearly visible in the their exteriors. The palatial design of the Rotterdam arsenal had to do with the building’s hybrid nature: part warehouse, part office and part ‘events hall’. In addition to storage spaces, workshops and offices, a large part of the building was reserved for ceremonial rooms. The west wing included a grand entrance hall, a library room, an armoury and a salon overlooking the river. Another surprising presence in an arsenal was a huge kitchen equipped for large banquets. The central wing contained a huge multifunctional space with an eleven-metre clear span made possible by a massive auxiliary structure from which the floor joists of the second storey were suspended. This space could be used for storage, but also for large-scale affairs like the visit of Tsar Alexander I in 1814. Thanks to its location at the bend in the river Maas, with a specially designed water-facing facade, the arsenal occupied a prominent place in Rotterdam’s cityscape. As such it was in keeping with wider eighteenth-century trends whereby admiralty buildings, in addition to their function as logistical infrastructure, also gave expression to military and political ambitions. This Rotterdam example demonstrates how utilitarian architecture could be deployed for visual representation on an urban scale and an analysis of its building history contributes to a better understanding of the role of maritime architecture in the late eighteenth-century Republic.
Review of a book written by Angeline Basuki, Loes van Iperen, Ester van Steekelenburg, Petra Timmer (red.).
Although no architectural project is built without construction workers, labourers remain woefully underrepresented in architectural and construction history. By tracing the emergence and development of the Algemene Centrale van de Bouw, the socialist construction workers’ union in Belgium, this article seeks to address that gap. It aims to move beyond the conventional emphasis on the relationship between workers and construction practice and to demonstrate how construction workers also had a significant impact on the legislative framework of the Belgian construction sector – far beyond the construction site itself. The article focuses on the union’s two main priorities: the struggle for fair wages and for improved safety on construction sites. Initially through strikes and later through more institutionalized negotiations, the organization succeeded in securing and protecting construction workers’ wages, while also helping to shape the development of safety regulations on site through bargaining and media campaigns. Furthermore, the union skilfully navigated the complex legal landscape of the Belgian construction sector. By strategically leveraging collective labour agreements and public procurement documents, it promoted alternative forms of regulation. This allowed changes to be implemented without relying on the often cumbersome procedures of formal legislation, granting the union a tangible influence on construction practices. These legal instruments also enabled the union to respond to the sweeping technological changes and new building materials that were entering the construction sector at the time. They valorised the new labour risks and technical skills these innovations entailed by incorporating them into improved wage conditions. In doing so, construction workers –too often overlooked in architectural, construction and social history – asserted their legislative power and laid the essential groundwork for improved wages and safety in the construction sector during the post-war development of the Belgian welfare state.
