Architecture and bureaucracy: indissociable and irreconcilable? The two spheres are often seen in opposition — the latter curtailing the former’s creative power — yet might they not also overlap, partake and occasionally coincide in their processes? Dismissing the role of bureaucracy in architecture as extraneous or detrimental seems to hinder our capacity, as thinkers and producers of architecture, to work through this relationship and explore ways of dealing with a pervasive tool of contemporary societal organisation; whereas understanding the fraught relationship might help us bridge the gap that, in many contexts, separates architecture and the communities it exists to serve. This special collection explores how architecture and bureaucracy have negotiated their stances in the twentieth century. In particular, it aims to shed light on instances where knowledge of architecture was an element in, and a product of, the machinery of bureaucracy. Beyond the notion of bureaucracy in architecture as a site of imposition and control — and the vivid sentiments of frustration and deception it prompts — lies a terrain where less contrasted, more fine-grained actions and exchanges occur. The ways in which these two spheres relate are diverse and merit scholarly attention, as the articles that follow demonstrate.

This article investigates the impact of managerial ideologies on projects for new governmental office buildings in Belgium in the 1920s and 1930s. Following the prewar publication of F. W. Taylor’s ‘scientific management’ theories, the scientisation of office activities was propagated by efficiency experts throughout the western world. In Belgium, as in France, the work of the mining engineer Henri Fayol was particularly influential. According to Fayol, private and public bureaucracies had to follow identical managerial principles, notably that all employees were to observe one another as much as possible. These ideas of visibility overlapped with the emphasis on transparency and open planning coming from quite a different quarter, namely Le Corbusier, Hannes Meyer and other modernist architects in the 1920s and 1930s. Yet how Fayol’s ideal was to be realised without compromising the traditional need for privacy for high-ranking office workers remained unresolved. The article explores the ideas of two crucial expert groups — architects and managerial experts — over these issues as they developed in Belgium in the inter-war years. In the 1920s, the mining engineer Max-Léo Gérard called for ministerial buildings that facilitated ‘collaborative work’ and the information scientist Paul Otlet advocated an ideal type of government offices based on an architectural diagram that facilitated mutual observation. In the 1930s, the architect Stanislas Jasinski proposed remodelling the centre of Brussels as a series of office blocks, in a design copied from Le Corbusier’s cruciform skyscrapers in the Plan Voisin. Such ideas received official endorsement with the Royal Commissariat for Administrative Reform under Louis Camu, which proposed to strengthen the societal role of governmental bureaucracy by rehousing the civil service in an enormous office complex close to the parliament. Contrasting with the idealism of these unrealised plans was one of the few government projects actually built, the Ministry of Science and Arts headquarters designed in 1929 by the in-house architect Georges Hano.

Between the first and second world wars, the London County Council (LCC) provided 82,000 working-class cottages and flats, of which 25,000 were built on the vast Becontree estate in the east of the metropolis. With these immense housing operations in hand, the LCC drastically increased its technical and administrative staff, becoming one of the largest municipal housing authorities in the world. This article sheds light on the organisation and functioning of the LCC Architect’s Department through analysis of the Becontree estate. Despite the extensive literature on municipal housing in the inter-war years, the council’s own architects during this period have remained almost entirely unknown. Contrary to the widespread preconception of the ‘official architect’, the LCC Architect’s Department evaluated and revised its organisational structure and managed to maintain a remarkable variety and complexity in its urbanistic approach — despite the overarching principles of standardisation and simplification, and despite its limited influence in relation to other departments within the LCC. Analysis of archival sources reveals the identity of these official architects and questions whether the organisational structure of the LCC Architect’s Department as a bureaucracy was reflected in the character of its housing estates.

The history of twentieth-century architecture in Turkey can be presented as a conflict between a powerful state bureaucracy and an independent architectural community: the former producing most of the buildings and infrastructure but with little verbalisation; the latter producing most of the discourse but building relatively little. This article examines a case that challenges this dichotomy. It focuses on the architectural department of SİSAG (1969–77), a company associated with Hacettepe University in Ankara, and the organisational, institutional and occupational modes and practices that it employed. The article explores both the architectural production of SİSAG and its role as the setting for the first white-collar strike in Turkey, and it unearths the intellectual and institutional discourse on the organisation of architectural production that surfaced with this confrontation. The article shows how, in the relationship between bureaucratic tradition and professional discourse, SİSAG took an ‘in-between’ position, its architects seeking to replace conflict with cooperation, and to reconcile ideas of public service, public interest and social engagement on the one hand with disciplinary knowledge, planning and design and independent research on the other.

In Italy following the second world war, the Vatican-controlled real-estate developer and contractor Società Generale Immobiliare (SGI) emerged as a major force in the country’s reconstruction process. From its Rome headquarters, the ‘Leviathan’ (as the journalist Antonio Cederna called it) devised, delivered and managed dozens of schemes across the peninsula — from residential and commercial developments to industrial, road transport and water infrastructure. None of this would have been possible without the establishment, immediately after the end of the war, of a centralised administrative system coordinating the work of the company’s 10,000 employees. Making use of the company’s unpublished documents, this article examines the bureaucratisation of SGI’s design and construction processes in the period 1945–73. It looks at the development of the company’s in-house information management system; the criteria it adopted in appointing its architectural staff; the modernisation of the company’s office space in Rome; the predicament of the architects on its payroll; its use of high-profile ‘signature’ architects for prestige projects; and the firm’s later adoption of project management techniques developed in the United States. It also looks at the way that the company exploited national and municipal planning regulations (and the gaps within them) to produce building types and urban configurations not previously seen in Italy. Overall, the article situates SGI’s ‘bureaucratic drift’ in the context of the increasingly corporate and specialised professional world of post-war western architecture.

In the 1950s, the German Democratic Republic (GDR) undertook a strict centralisation and collectivisation of the construction industry, including the entire field of architecture. As a result, architecture was practised almost exclusively within the framework of state-controlled enterprises, the units of which formed ‘collectives’ that structured professional cooperation. In line with the political and organisational significance of the collective, the aim was continuously to enhance the efficiency of the construction industry and to integrate into the socialist system a branch — namely, the architectural profession — that tended to be perceived as bourgeois and individualistic. Against this background, both the role of the architect within the collective and the best functioning of such units on a creative and economic level were subjects of constant discussion. Yet the system also allowed various possibilities for latitude. Facilitated by individual personalities and intersubjective processes, personal and creative possibilities existed within an otherwise highly regulated system. This article explores the three levels of the meaning and function of the collective — as a political, bureaucratic and social space — by addressing its historical origins and nature and by examining two case studies in which, notwithstanding official theory, individual architects were able to exercise a considerable degree of creative autonomy.

This article explores the relationship between architecture and public administration at the Swedish National Board of Public Building (Kungl. Byggnadsstyrelsen, or KBS) in the years 1963–74. This government agency, which existed from 1918 to 1993, was in charge of planning, designing, producing and maintaining public service buildings and facilities. During the 1960s, it was subject to a number of major administrative reforms which, by rationalising the organisation’s activities, sought to make both the construction and maintenance of buildings more cost-effective for the taxpayer. These reforms paralleled rationalisation efforts in the field of architectural design, where structural and material efficiency were sought in the adoption of large-scale systems. The administrative reforms thus went beyond the reorganisation of departments and work priorities to permeate all aspects of the agency’s activities. The article presents the architectural activities of KBS as innovative and experimental responses to bureaucratic structures and requirements. Examination of the design and building processes of three projects — the national telecom headquarters in Farsta, the Garnisonen office complex in central Stockholm and Linköping University — uncovers some of the administrative structures deployed at KBS, and the creative and novel architectural solutions triggered by their integration into design and planning practices.

This article explores the provenance of the first draft of Sebastiano Serlio’s sixth book, on dwellings, written in the 1540s. It was acquired by the Avery Library at Columbia University, New York, a century ago and published for the first time in 1978. The article proposes that the manuscript and drawings remained in the vicinity of Paris until the late seventeenth century, when they were mounted and bound into an album that may have been sold by a descendant of Jacques Androuet du Cerceau I, either in Paris or the Netherlands. It goes on to demonstrate that, in the early eighteenth century, the manuscript was owned by Francis Bird, a leading British sculptor of his day, who collaborated with leading architects including Christopher Wren, James Gibbs and, possibly, Nicholas Hawksmoor.

This article demonstrates that the most celebrated building designed by Andrea Palladio, widely known as the Villa Rotonda and begun around 1566, was left only partially constructed at the time of the architect’s death in 1580 and that, as a villa design, it was neither perfect nor ideal. Drawing on detailed records of the construction work carried out in the 1590s, the article shows that much of the villa was constructed or altered after Palladio died, in significant part so as to deal with practical difficulties and deficiencies inherent in the design originally published in Palladio’s treatise. Scholars in general have come to recognise that the Villa Rotonda is something of a palimpsest. However, it has not been properly understood that the building was largely constructed not as an adjusted scheme devised by Palladio, but rather as a strategically revised concept for a villa developed after Palladio’s time by Vincenzo Scamozzi. This preserved something of the original scheme as a hilltop belvedere — especially its outward appearance as a domed and isolated block with four near-identical porticoes — but it adapted what had been built, which was far from complete, to a much more practical vision of the requirements of rural life. What was built during this later period then remained intact until the late eighteenth century.

In the early nineteenth century, Joseph Bonomi the Elder (1739–1808) was one of the best-known architects in Britain — so much so that he figured in Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility (1811) — but his reputation subsequently declined and diminished to the extent that, in the current literature on British architecture of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, he is little more than a footnote. In a circular process, this excision directly contributed to the demolition of some of his most important work — above all, Rosneath House in Dunbartonshire — on the grounds that it was designed by an architect of little importance, which in turn makes it all the harder to recapture and appraise his architecture. The article explores both the reasons for the excision and the nature of Bonomi’s work. Drawing on the limited available evidence as well as hitherto unused construction drawings of Rosneath, the article repositions Bonomi as an Italian architect working in London — first for the Adam brothers and then on his own account — and examines the qualities of his designs and the factors that led to him being excluded from the inner circle of the artistic establishment, most notably the Royal Academy. In doing so, it sheds new light both on developments in neoclassicism in the period, specifically the ‘stripped down’ style that Bonomi espoused, and on the xenophobic and anti-Catholic currents in London at the time, which appear to have continued to influence his posthumous reputation.

St Patrick’s Cathedral in Melbourne is among the largest Gothic revival churches built in the nineteenth century, matching in size the medieval cathedrals that inspired its design. The history of the commission reveals the role played by the first Roman Catholic bishop of Melbourne, James Alipius Goold, who was acquainted with A. W. N. Pugin’s theories of the Gothic revival and who promoted the construction of churches true to Pugin’s principles. After two failed attempts at smaller structures, and in the wake of the gold rush in Victoria, Goold in 1858 commissioned the newly arrived architect William Wilkinson Wardell to design a cathedral of unprecedented monumental proportions. Wardell’s design, rooted in an archaeologically correct approach to medieval precedent, was widely praised by colonial society, which favoured massive buildings reminiscent of those found in Europe. Furthermore, with its French-inspired apse and radiating chapels, St Patrick’s highlighted a connection to Catholic religious tradition particularly resonant for its largely Irish congregation. The design stands apart from High Victorian developments in the Gothic revival seen in England in the 1850s, as colonial patrons favoured a more conservative approach. St Patrick’s exemplifies several of the trends that influenced the revival of Gothic architecture in the Australian colonies, while also representing the desire of the Catholic Church to establish its position throughout the wider British empire.

This article discusses the workers who built the first phase of George Gilbert Scott’s University of Glasgow between 1867 and 1871. It takes as its starting point an address presented to the contractor, John Thompson of Peterborough, which is inscribed with the names of more than 900 of his employees. Names of manual workers are seldom preserved, which makes this document an exceptional record of the individuals employed on the construction of a major Victorian building. Using online genealogy databases to search census returns and records of births, marriages and deaths, the author has identified more than 100 of the workers named. The article discusses their recruitment, their experiences before coming to Glasgow, their circumstances while working on the university and their subsequent careers. By focusing on the workers rather than on the building’s celebrated architect or the distinguished institution that commissioned it, the article offers a fresh, decentred view of a familiar monument. A major theme that emerges is the workers’ geographical mobility, which sheds new light on the nineteenth-century development of long-distance contracting.

This article investigates a series of development strategies pursued in Ghana from the mid-1940s under British colonial rule to the early independence period of the 1960s, seeking to understand how the pace and location of development affected the wider built fabric and especially housing production. While two contrasting visions emerge — of rural extractive agriculture versus industrial urban manufacturing — the impact of these endeavours was most strongly felt in the accompanying housing developments. Attempts to create a new artisan school capable of manufacturing building materials, and a laboratory tasked with developing new local building materials, sought to preserve a mainly rural-based population and lifestyle while reducing costs and making dwellings more durable. However, with advancing industrialisation and rapidly expanding urban centres, efforts to accommodate this change with revised urban boundaries and new construction standards failed adequately to address the housing issues and revealed fundamental problems in the governance of newly urbanising and suburban settlements. Could the solution be to ’start again’, to build a new town without the difficulties of the past? This was the approach of the elected nationalist government that commissioned the new town of Tema, east of the capital Accra. As one of the grand projects of the then prime minister, Kwame Nkrumah, Tema has been the focus of much scholarly attention, but a new source has recently come to light that changes understanding of the project. The notebooks kept by Michael Hirst, one of those charged with its design and realisation, show how Tema became an unwitting design school with its own series of trials and tests performed by a team of newly qualified architects. It was not only a political new beginning, but also an experimental attempt to create a new urban environment built on the promise of an industrialised future.

With a focus on post-war Britain (and Scotland in particular), this article contributes to the literature on the history of ’community’ by examining its apparent inverse, namely privacy. In particular, it explores the interest that emerged in 1960s Britain in a type of housing that was considered to provide enhanced privacy for residents — the courtyard house. The article begins by looking at the ways in which privacy was considered in official documentation on homes and housing in the post-war period in both England and Wales, and Scotland. It then turns to the work of the University of Edinburgh’s Housing Research Unit in the 1960s, which included not just the design and construction of housing schemes, but also social investigation of the built results. The article examines the ’urban’ housing designed in Cumbernauld and the ’rural’ counterpart in Prestonpans, both of which were intended to provide enhanced privacy for residents. It then looks at the unit’s evaluation of the completed courtyard housing built at Prestonpans as well as another survey undertaken in Dundee, both of which explored the residents’ experience of privacy. Overall, the article argues that the idea of privacy, as understood by designers and experienced by residents, played an important role in post-war housing, as part of the ambition not just to improve standards, but also to provide new choices.