Why a renewed interest in Brutalism is a subversion of its contentious history

A cultural and architectural movement born in the post-World War era, Brutalism was a language of severity, and often, oppression. What about the style, then, is appealing in 2023?

Could the word “Brutalist” possibly evoke a positive response? Born in the aftermath of the World Wars, this peculiarly named architecture style—derived from the Modernist architectural movement of the early 20th century—was employed to construct working-class housing and public buildings till the early 1970s, and rather ironically, for a generation brutalised by the most devastating wars known to humanity. The term was supposed to be a clever play on beton brut, meaning ‘raw concrete’ in French, and was popularised by English architectural critic of the time, Reyner Banham, who wrote for the authoritative The Architectural Review magazine. However, in the hands of pioneers like the Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier, who is largely credited for birthing this aesthetic, the style’s rough-edged connotations slowly made way for astounding sculptural marvels.

From libraries to galleries, and factories to parliament buildings, Brutalism tipped its hat to the angry young man who was a working-class hero in the neo-Industrial Revolution era across the globe. There’s the Boston City Hall built in 1968; the Hayward Gallery in London built in the same year; there’s also the Rudolph Hall built in 1963 in New Haven, Connecticut. Closer home, there is the Palace of Assembly in Chandigarh’s Capitol Complex built by Corbusier himself, from 1951-62. In Bangladesh, the Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban or National Parliament House in Dhaka—whose construction started in 1961 and ended in 1982—created by the legendary Estonian-born American architect Louis Kahn, is a glowing example of the style. All of them bear steely façades that overwhelm with their towering stature, looming over the skies above in shades of monolithic gray. They’re meant to be utilitarian, forgoing the frills of ostentation to serve the common folk.

A Brutalist renaissance

But despite its notoriety for being claggy and dehumanising eyesores clad in concrete, the style has garnered renewed interest through the subsequent decades. As recently as 2018, Kanye West’s Yeezy studio launch in Calabasas gave us a peek into what a modern-day Brutalist structure could look like. Its bare, pared-back approach does not indulge in excesses. California-based designer Willo Perron, who crafted the space, wanted the gray textured walls and stripped-back interiors to be a blank canvas for the creativity of the people inhabiting it. He built the surfaces to help people reflect, quite literally, on the ideas that crowded their heads. Evidently, it’s a subversion of the style, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to culturally recontextualise it.

In Kozhikode, architect Rohit Palakkal made his own studio on the principles of Brutalism during the COVID-19 pandemic. “I do see more and more people appreciating the philosophy of this style now, and being willing to experiment with it,” he says. In the age of minimalism and decluttering, where Marie Kondo writes the decor bible, it’s rather unsurprising that the unvarnished charm of this style is considered the perfect fit for a generation looking to dial down on every front. “This style acts as a wonderful blank canvas, on which layers can be added as per one’s needs and requirements. It respects materiality and vernacular architectural styles as well, so it’s inherently versatile,” says Palakkal, whose personal project is a stunning play of textures spread across two mezzanine levels and a dozen workstations that stoically allow the surrounding and enveloping green to assume centre stage. One can christen it as “Tropical Brutalism”—an adaptation of the style originating in cooler, temperate lands—for warmer temperatures that pose the real threat of trapping an uncomfortable amount of heat. To circumvent this, Palakkal elevated his ceilings, added shelf windows and rectilinear skylights that capture the northern lights. “I don’t like cosmetically treating anything that I build with, and Brutalism allows me to do that. In Kerala, where vernacular architecture is widely accepted and adhered to, Brutalist principles fit perfectly with that design philosophy,” he says.

Palakkal can see the rising trend of people getting tired of synthetically processing materials to mimic concrete textures, which is not only expensive, but also time- and space-consuming. “People are beginning to think, why not experiment with the actual laterite or brick walls that are already available?” he says.

A natural response to the times

The idea behind built heritage is to make it straightforward and responsive to the time and space it is situated in. Under the tutelage of her grandfather, the late B.V. Doshi—widely known as the greatest modern architect of India—Khushnu Panthaki Hoof learned that “time and style are limited notions”. Doshi himself trained under Corbusier and Kahn, and yet, would not consciously subscribe to any ‘ism’.

“When he set out to build, my grandfather was just being true to the nature of the material that was being used, and the forces that come into being while using those materials. The emphasis was on the span and the material, and what the purpose of that structure was. What ‘isms’ they fall under happened much later, retrospectively,” Panthaki Hoof says, underlining the fact that the evolution and adoption of any design philosophy is a result of the time and space it is born in, and the rekindled interest in Brutalism is only a consequence of the same.

In Ahmedabad, Doshi’s Tagore Memorial Hall, an auditorium built in 1961, and Premabhai Hall, a theatre made in 1976, are instances of public architecture built on Brutalist principles. Their beauty, however, does not intimidate with their imposing scale. On the contrary, these structures bear a malleable, fluid grace that feels welcoming. For the former, a series of rigid frames in reinforced concrete folded plates comprise the outer shell, while on the inside, a 'seating bowl' with a capacity of 700 lies on an independent structure that facilitates an unhindered flow of interaction between the performers and their audiences. It is a fitting tribute to the eponymous bard who was an advocate of learning in spaces that shattered institutional hierarchies, which Doshi honoured by unwittingly using, and even subverting, a style that is infamous for its severity.

In 2023, Brutalism is being preferred to even design smaller-scale buildings, like residential ones. “I have used its principles while creating individual rooms and units of some projects, and I can see that clients are now opening up to it more and more,” Palakkal says.

What Brutalism means today

An interior-design trend report published last year predicted an uptick in the usage of stark materials and a return to an austere design spirit that renounces extravagance. In 2023, the Oscar-nominated film Tár received as many accolades for its Brutalism-inspired set design, as its lead actor Cate Blanchette did for her performance. The buzz around it, therefore, is undeniable, and architects Shantanu Poredi and Manisha Agarwal of Mumbai’s award-winning Studio MOOF, agree. Their work on the School of Planning and Architecture in Vijayawada in Andhra Pradesh just before the pandemic was a forerunner in this neo-Brutalist wave sweeping through the global cultural landscape, following which the duo have only encountered increased curiosity about the style.

“There is a whole new way of thinking about this architectural language, and allowing for a kind of a change in the thought process. However, it also runs the risk of becoming a stylistic pattern that is appropriated, where people don’t understand its potential. Sometimes, people will just plaster a wall and call it Brutalist because it seems to have its aesthetic, but it goes beyond that,” Agarwal says. This points to a revision in a school of thought that was earlier written off as cold, dank, and even oppressive. Today, the architect and designers’ community is conscious of not repeating mistakes, while also being mindful of not erasing an important movement in history.

In the case of the School of Planning and Architecture, the duo deliberately chose a style that does not have “too much of an expression of its own,” says Poredi. Originally, Brutalism may have propagated a culture of resistance; today, it embraces the exact opposite. “The multivalency of the space gives opportunities for student cultures to play out. These are places that people socialise in,” he adds. The marriage of emergent thought with emerging technology can aid in rewriting the possibilities of Brutalism, according to the architects, but without dismantling its fundamental principles. “The last few times we were interviewed by the media was actually inquiring about this style of architecture, so clearly, there is a visible effort to understand what Brutalism is and what its potential is in today’s day and age, especially internationally,” says Agarwal.

The firm is currently working on a hostel in Mumbai’s Veermata Jijabai Technological Institute that adheres to the principles of Brutalist architecture in terms of expression of movement and fluidity. It forsakes concrete to use lighter material for its façade that is reminiscent of the one seen on the Boston City Hall. “The expression of the material in Brutalism, which was originally concrete, is important, yes. But there are newer materials available today. The heroes of Brutalism back in the day had access to fewer materials, while the practising architects of today have many more to choose from,” says Poredi. It’s an evolution that accommodates human needs more than industrial ones, civilising the approach to round out its previously sharp edges. Today, what lies inside a Brutalist structure is as important as what lies on its outside.

“We are designing a house in Bellary [in Karnataka] where temperatures run really high in summer. The outside uses a stark, Brutalist form in pure stacked stone, so to protect the house from the heat, the ventilation comes from the courtyard of the building, and its interstitial spaces,” Poredi says. It isn’t a “conventional Brutalist structure,” because while the exterior remains stolid, the interior soaks up the sun’s warmth but not its heat.

Clearly, a cultural reckoning is only feasible when changes happen from the inside-out, and with Brutalism, it’s perhaps time to look beyond its stony shell of a name.

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