Room 11

A Tasmanian response

Room11 is a team of professional thinkers, working within the field of architectural design. Room11 works in response to material, earth and light; encouraging progressive and collaborative design processes and outcomes. Based in Hobart, Tasmania and Melbourne, Victoria; Room11 is committed to the delivery of innovative design solutions and has developed national and international recognition for its built work. T

Tasmania is a strange place in which to seek out a contemporary existence.

It has long been seen as the poor brother of the big island and statistics back this notion, paradoxically, it is known as a hub of creative activity. It is certainly a place of stark contrasts, of confronting juxtaposition and inherent dichotomy. A place where traditional binaries sit side by side, not necessarily in harmony. A place where the cut of modernity is yet to heal; it lies raw and tender for all to see. It is a place where matter and material have meaning. A place where the problem of colonisation is relevant, where the act of demarcation and sub-division is relished (it’s a gold rush!).

This situation leads the inquisitive architectural mind into difficult territory. It raises questions about our place in this landscape. Should we be building here? Should we touch the earth lightly or do we make places of permanence.

Within these pages we have chosen three buildings to illustrate Room11's current position. While these buildings discussed share a formal similarity (they are all blunt boxes as all our projects have been since the inception of the practice) it is material and detail that differentiate and give meaning to the shared formal approach. When looking at Little Big House (LBH) in relation to the Jefferies Track House (JTH) it is abundantly clear that while they share qualities; one is a timber box and the other, a concrete monolith. The edges of the custom-glazing sections of LBH finish at the point of steel. The form leads to an edge. The building is almost fragile when viewed in the context of building. There is no room for error and none is made. It is a floating model of matchsticks robust only through its precision: sprung with strength.

JTH, conversely, is a massive, almost super real, manifestation of matter. A dense point in the universe. Accordingly, the detailing of the JTH is direct and blunt. The building asks the architect how to end a concrete wall and the architect answers, 'it just stops'. 'Of course', building and designer chorus together. What is it like to build out of wood? Out of concrete? Out of metal sheet? We question what the inherent qualities of materials are in 2009. The answer is not that it is the same as it always was. Perception has changed since 1940.

The three buildings also have different relationship to time; The LBH says, 'I will change with time', untreated timber is exposed to the elements as we tell the building to 'go colour yourself'. JTH house says, 'I was always here'. Concrete is a potent language for architecture, it speaks of timelessness, always has, always will while ARH says, ‘I'm Peter Pan’. This exploration of type is also carried through the approach to aperture. JTH simply places glass where concrete ceases. The LBH has a number of levels of separation; screened vents, clear glass and translucent screen walls. Hidden vents articulate the box. When closed they disappear entirely becoming the simplest of recesses on the interior. At ARH different materials build up to opening, battened screen creates dappled light on decks.

This is not a conclusive exploration of the qualities of the individual buildings; rather the photographs talk about form and the writing about material, detail, intent and result. These are the elements of construction that can be most usefully discussed within the confines of a magazine.

We now delve further into idiosyncrasies of each building.

Allens Rivulet House 2 (ARH)

Siting: just below the apex of a steepish hill a black commander sleeps, eyes open. An object, a building with black armour.

As you wind your way through some archetype Tasmanian hilly topography you catch a glimpse, a question presents itself does this object assert itself or recede? Is this building a bulk, a hulk, or does it shadow into the background? Certainly, its character changes with perspective, from a distance it is almost mute, closer to home it is strong but somehow both light and massive at the same time - once more this inescapable unclassifiable awkward character returns, a Tasmanian-ness.

As we arrive at the door, a welcoming open hand of timber greets feet; a soft body of timber opens. We are still uneasy, weary; we have a heightened sense of awareness. “Is this object a friend or should we run from this un-godly black beast”. You enter a little courtyard and a sneaky view of a table, it’s a house after all – we all relax, it’s a sanctuary – the outside just reminds us that softness requires protection. You are placed on a smooth platform. A platform to view our surrounds, this bulk is our protector as we sit in the collar protected from 'other', a point of repose, the mountain at your feet, a roof overhead solid concrete beneath. A family lives here, have a meal, be part of a community, eat.

The inside is soft, just through the glass wall it is softer still. This encourages an outdoor existence.

Little big house (LBH)

Client: a house designed for and by Thomas Bailey and his partner Megan Baynes.

Tactics: viewed from a distance the tactics of the building are simple. The building finishing a landscape room, it is the last edge of a space formed up by mature Birch and Rowan trees.

Fern Tree is on the side of a mountain; it can be cold, damp, folds of mountain; ridges and valleys are beset by clouds of mist and days of rain. Consequently, the interior spaces must be warm, dry, expansive and light filled.

Spatial sequence: one enters the house from a stone platform of large irregular mudstone. The stone emphasises the lightness of the timber structure. A small step up to the porch delivers one into a black sleeve. Immediately you are confronted by the smell of the rough-sawn Celery Top pine door.

Once again a very obvious entry point. We think it is essential that a building communicates clearly where to enter.

Once through the door, one is within the confines of the black lined vestibule from which one is hatched into an enormously tall luminous space. A white cube six by six by six meters. To the East, a two-story glass and translucent polycarbonate wall.

“The intention was to create a space with a sense of the sky. We consciously composed apertures around a belief that a simple space with only beautiful views would be an affirming space to inhabit.” Megan Baynes

The luminous white and the clear glass to the sky create a sense of elevated-ness. The vestibules compression awakens the senses to manipulated space – it gives you a little squeeze, the living space says 'remember the transcendent', while a father’s voice lovingly tells you to 'stand up straight'.

If you think looking at the sky is boring, perhaps you should get into some other profession.

To the north, an elongated window pulls the eye into the garden and through to the dining and kitchen spaces beneath the mezzanine level.

Over the stairs a skylight once more beacons you into the cloud. Turn right and a full height frameless window. This is the most beautiful window in the house (there are only three). The view is of the leafy extremities of particularly verdant Birch tree. Continuing clockwise one is presented with a view framed by the receding foothills, the Wellington Ranges, as they move down to the River Derwent and Channel beyond. This is the point to contemplate, to ruminate to consider the day.

The building intends to be humble, contextual, and uplifting.

Jefferies Track House (JTH)

Client: Alex Thompson, the client for JTH, is interested in the idea of 'hard next to soft; the contrast enhancing the essential qualities of each object'. This is a re-occurring theme in Room11's work, although more of an inevitability, as opposed to an actively pursued point of interest.

In this project we cleave earth to reveal concrete. We lifted up the earth and punched holes in it. In a white-line world, the reality of this is so much more confronting. Once in the ground you must get light, you must allow light to puncture earth.

Arriving at JTH is more akin to arriving on a plateau than to a home. Beyond the small plateau a rolling distant view to the horizon and a bright sky laced with swirling cloud. As though the landscape witnesses the building (instead of the other way around.)

Intruding into the top of the hill are two concrete blades. These jut towards the viewer and form the sides of a stair descending to the entry of the subterranean house. Beyond the front door one enters a linear gallery space. The space is punctuated by blades of light from the narrow lancet floor to ceiling glazing. This built space is extraordinarily strong. There is one language, concrete. Concrete floor, ceiling, walls; you are in a concrete sleeve which does not terminate in a vista, but another concrete face. As you move towards the light one moves cautiously, with a sense that the concrete watches. The house is a presence, not invisible or mute. The concrete bounces your existence back at you.

Left into the living space. Floor to ceiling glazing, but the view is not what you would expect. It is not a fantastical vista. It is not the glorious relief, the heightened eruption of natural within the concrete mass. It is simply a view of ground and trees, it does not say 'kaboom', and it says 'you are here'. It is almost as though the building says nothing. Yet, there is still relief; the tension is abated. It is not the great verbal avalanche, but a hand on your shoulder “You must be reassured with my physical presence” Strong and silent. It is something unexpected.

As one moves further to the West the view of the valley is framed by the building. It is a beautiful rolling rural view, almost Tuscan. Or a smooth version of Switzerland. No, it is Tasmania's soft rolling lines that greet you. You want to sit down. You are in the living room at the dinning table. Take a seat. The cavity in the solid is such an extraordinary relief from the concrete quietness that it takes your eyes into the view. It is like a hole in the side of a plane sucking all the contents from beside you, without the horror, without the noise, without the plane. A silent monastic flood of greens and khakis. A good place for a cup of tea.

It stands defiant. It is monolithic and direct. It says 'I am here to stay'. It addresses the nature of dwelling in Tasmania. Room11 tackles the question of dwelling in Tasmania.

Dialogue/discussion

A driver for our work is the idea that we are pursuing some form of architectural intellectual logic, a process, a rationale, and, yet, the manifestations of that process are seemingly foreign. There is an accepted wisdom that the result of a series of reasonable decisions should create something reasonable. It does not. We occasionally debate whether this process is a mask or a vale that allows us to do our strange internal night-time dance – an illusion to keep the frontal lobe occupied while the subconscious lets something sneak out and build itself in the world. Or, contrastingly, is it that the process is so perfect a vessel that objects arrive truly from a reasoned intellectual process and this is something we are not used to seeing.

Objects that speak 'building' to us; that speak the dialect of building tell us in this language 'what we are' and 'what values we hold.' We recently heard Glenn Murcutt talking about the surprise and the unexpected qualities of the built object. We think it is this quality of the architectural process that we toy with here. This point is further illustrated by JTH. It is the construction of a gentle concept, the idea that a hill should dominate the man made. The kernel of intrigue is in the 'act' versus the 'intent'. Intent is to live quietly, to let landform dominate built form. Yet, structural necessity of such an act forces the architect’s hand to create an enormously solid structure, a brutal building. Is it like a child loving a cushion plant so much that they could not help but touch it? Sit on it when father is not watching until it becomes mud and then do you bury your hands in the mud left behind? Is it still a pleasure? Is it our nature?