Designed by Kenzo Tange; completed 1981
In 1976 the Nigerian state authorities believed that a new federal capital city would
facilitate the creation of a “federal character” and thus resolve the problem of nepotism
and relieve ethnic tensions among the 250 cultural groups that constitute the Nigerian
nation. Abuja and its architecture, it was believed, would also remove the colonial
identity that the erstwhile capital city of Lagos was thought to bestow on the Nigerian
people.
As a result, the role of Lagos as the federal capital of Nigeria has been in question
from 1960, when Nigeria became independent, to 9 August 1975, when General Murutala
Mohammed set up an eight-member Committee on the Location of the Federal Capital of
Nigeria. The task of the committee was to review the multiple roles of Lagos as the
federal capital of Nigeria, the capital of the state of Lagos, and the economic capital of
the country.
The committee concluded that a new federal capital would improve Nigeria’s national
security, enhance Nigerian interior development, encourage the decentralization of
economic infrastructures from Lagos, and enhance the development of an indigenous
Nigerian building culture and industry. Finally, the new capital would emphasize
Nigeria’s emergence from the civil war of 1967–70 as a more united, stable, and
confident country. Nigerian lawmakers who shared the opinions of the committee
justified the idea of developing a new federal capital by suggesting that there existed a
fundamental need for a place where all Nigerians could come together on an equal basis
to help foster national unity. Moreover, advocates of a new federal capital city raised the
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 16
problems of overcrowding and lack of land for future expansion at Lagos as well as the
existence of severe social inequality in the colonial cities of Nigeria. As a result, Abuja
was conceived as a place that symbolized Nigeria’s autonomy from British colonization,
urban segregation, and a federal character that all Nigerians could share in regardless of
ethnic heritage. According to the committee and the International Planning Association
(IPA), the new capitol would provide “a balanced development focus for the nation” (see
The Mas ter Plan for Abuja, 1979). They chose Japanese modernist Kenzo Tange, a protégé of Le Corbusier, as
the principal architect for the city plan.
The federal government of Nigeria produced a schedule for implementing the
committee’s recommendations on 4 February 1976. Decree No. 6 established for Nigeria
a Federal Capital Territory—an African version of the District of Columbia—a neutral
ground where a Nigerian federal character would be developed for the good of all
Nigerians. The government took an 8,000-square-kilometer parcel (more than twice the
size of the state of Lagos) out of three minority states. Abuja is located on the Gwagwa
Plains in the middle of Nigeria; its high elevation and numerous hills contribute to a yearround
pleasant climate, one of the major attractions that influenced the committee to
select the site.
Abuja was conceived as a city for three million people to be developed in 20 years,
and its master plan symbolized the themes of democracy and Nigerian unity.
Construction began at Abuja in 1981 under the leadership of President Shehu Shagari
(who was later deposed), who was anxious to move from Lagos to the new Federal
Capital Territory.
The Nigerian authorities of state insisted that Aso Hill must be the most prominent
element within the Federal Capital Territory. Aso Hill is a huge granite outcrop (1,300
feet high) that dominates the landscape of Abuja and its vicinity visually and physically,
giving the city a natural east-west axis. Moreover, creating the image of a democratic
landscape that emblemizes the Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (patterned
after the United States’ checks-and-balances system of government) was also an integral
part of the Abuja urban design scheme. As a result, a democratic shrine called the Three
Arms Zone was created at the foot of Aso Hill, making it the focal point of the city and
the locus of power of the federal government of Nigeria. Abuja’s Three Arms Zone is one
kilometer in diameter, and the buildings of the National Assembly, the Presidential
Palace, and the Supreme Court are located within it. From Aso Hill in the east end of the
city, one moves through the ceremonial Abuja National Mall, which is also patterned
after that of Washington, D.C. However, the axial view of the mall is flanked by high-rise
federal office buildings on both sides, terminating first at the quintuple towers of the
Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation and finally at the National Stadium in the west
of the city.
Although the Abuja master plan also aspires to position the city as a major pan-
African commercial, financial, and political center, it is dominated by a rhetoric of
Nigerian unity, national identity, and democracy. As a result, it is characterized by
unresolved tensions between its nationalist themes, the intentions of the emergent
Nigerian intelligentsia who inherited political power from Britain, and the intentions of
the architect. First, Tange’s fundamental concept for Abuja’s master plan resembles the
plan for Tokyo. One could argue that Tange’s plan to incorporate the Japanese
modernism of Tokyo represented an attempt to meet the needs of Nigerian national
identity; but concerns remained as to whether the architect’s uniform design for the
monumental federal buildings reflected the interests of the emergent Nigerian elite who
inherited political power from Britain, or whether the new structure contributed to the
erasure of certain ethnically based social boundaries. The insistence of the federal
government of Nigeria that Aso Hill be the most prominent object in the Federal Capital
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 18
Territory suggests that it was adopting an ancient “pagan” ritual site (Aso Hill) as a
means of reinventing a Nigerian “federal character,” something quite different from the
version of modernity that Tange envisioned. Advocates of the Aso Hill complex
envisioned it as a sign of stability, nationality, and cultural myth making in the vibrant,
new capital city.
Military dictators interpreted Abuja’s master plan as a document that required the
isolation of the Three Arms Zone (as a shrine to power) from the rest of the city to make
it inaccessible for public gathering. The river that runs down the foot of Aso Hill forms a
moat between the central part of the city and the Zone. This moat can be crossed only by
bridge, and the bridge is designed to be easily barricaded in time of civil disturbances.
Hence, marching to the shrine of power, as is the case in most democratic societies, has
been neutralized by the manner in which the master plan was interpreted and
implemented. Any march in the city will stop at the national mall in the central district.
This outcome was not by accident but by the careful intentions of the military dictators
who built Abuja and who deliberately chose to ignore existing traditional urban examples
in Nigeria. The ideology that privileges a landscape that can forge national unity in
Nigeria will face several practical challenges with the national assembly and the civilian
president, who took over power on 29 May 1999 after 15 years of continuous military
dictatorship.
ABTEIBERG MUNICIPAL MUSEUM,MÖNCHENGLADBACH, GERMANY
Designed by Hans Hollein; completed 1982
Since the 1990s, it has not been uncommon for architects and their clients to break
with the two previously prevailing alternatives—temple or warehouse—for art museums,
but such a typological rupture had been dramatically anticipated two decades earlier, by
Hans Hollein in the Museum Abteiberg, a unique building tailored to an unusual site and
a distinctive collection. The Pritzker Prize laureate of 1985, who was born in Vienna in
1934 and is an artist, teacher, and creator of furniture, interiors, and exhibitions, has at
Mönchengladbach assembled a virtual primer of museum design, one that has brought a
heretofore unknown visceral excitement to the vocation of museum going. In contrast to
later attempts in this genre, however, Hollein’s achievement has contributed to an
intensified appreciation of the museum’s contents rather than making a personal
statement at their expense.
Although Hollein has learned from the institutional buildings of Louis I.Kahn and
Alvar Aalto, he listens to his own music, which—to pursue the metaphor—includes
concerti from the 18th, symphonies from the 19th, and popular songs from the 20th
centuries. His eclecticism served him well in this complex commission, made more
difficult by the need for the museum to serve urban as well as aesthetic ends. Hollein has
linked Mönchengladbach’s town center on the heights with the medieval Ettal Abbey
(today the city hall) on the slopes below, assembling a multi-tiered museum from a series
of discrete elements of different sizes and shapes that provide a series of delightfully
varied indoor and outdoor rooms. Distributing the individual volumes in space rather than
Entries A–F 13
containing them within a monolithic whole allowed him to maintain the picturesque scale
of the town; at the subterranean level, the disparate sections are united.
Although designing a museum is always challenging, it is perhaps less onerous when,
in contrast to those encyclopedic institutions that are in continual flux, its holdings
consist of a focused group of works. Kahn found such a golden opportunity in the
Kimbell Museum, and Hollein has exploited the similar possibilities here, where he
worked closely with the director, Jonathan Cladders, in formulating the program. They
believe that today the museum itself represents a Ges amtkunstwerk (total work of art), “a huge scenario
into which the individual work is fitted…not the autonomy of the work at any price but
the deliberately staged correspondence between space and work of art” (Klotz, 1985, p. 19). This especially applies to contemporary art, which frequently is
deliberately produced for a museum setting. The plan that Hollein and Cladders evolved
is without precedent for this building type. None of the customary tropes, whether
conventional or modern—vaulted galleries arranged symmetrically, the universal space,
the proverbial white cube—are present. Instead, the combination of small, contained
cabinets and larger rooms perfectly accommodates a collection that, although including
some historical pieces, is mainly focused on the post-World War II period and, although
international, is richly endowed with work by American artists of such competing
movements as Minimalism, Post-Painterly Abstraction, and Pop. Many works are in the
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 14
form of installations without customary boundaries or frames and do not necessarily
require natural light.
From the town, one enters the museum precinct via an elevated walkway that leads to
a stone-faced platform whereon is set a tower containing administrative offices; a library;
workshops and storage; a cubic, top-lighted undivided volume for temporary displays; the
shedroofed, zinc-clad “clover-leaf” pavilion for the permanent collection; and the
entrance temple. The platform also covers museum spaces excavated into the hill, and
from it, one can descend gradually to curving terraces, furnished with sculpture, that
border the gardens of the former abbey; beneath a portion of the terraces are additional
exhibition areas.
Hollein has rejected the prescribed routes encountered in traditional museums for
mysterious, polymorphous paths that compel the viewer to wander on her own and
discover unexpected places, then to turn back on them or chance on new chambers.
Because chronology is not the issue it would be for a historically based collection, the ad
hoc character is stimulating rather than frustrating. Upstairs and downstairs, under- and
above-ground, the variously configured galleries illuminated by diverse means—daylight
through windows and skylights and artificial light via incandescent, neon, and fluorescent
fixtures—permit individual works to be perceived in the setting most sympathetic to their
makers’ intentions. The most organized part of the display areas comprises what Hollein
calls the “cloverleaf”—a group of seven “kissing squares,” to use Kahn’s formulation,
that are traversed at the corners. Set under saw-toothed skylights, these rooms are ideal
for big pieces by such artists as Andy Warhol, Frank Stella, Carl Andre, and Roy
Lichtenstein. There are also curved rooms, some with undulating walls that are positively
Baroque in character; double-height spaces and circular steps add further drama.
Hollein’s rejection of the convention of amorphous flexible areas, dominant since the
1940s, in favor of a rich variety of specific and distinctive spaces, would in the 1990s
become a popular solution for art museums—yet another example of the way the
Museum Abteiberg adumbrates many later schemes for this type of institution.
Also prescient is Hollein’s interjection of playfulness and irony into the reverence that
typically pervades museum design. Although marble clads some of the surfaces, it is
combined with less elevated masonry materials like brick and sandstone. Reflective as
well as transparent glass appears; zinc is placed beside chromium and steel. One side of
the temple-like pavilion that forms the main entrance sports graffiti in red paint, matching
the color of some of the railings. Exterior light fixtures have an industrial character in
contrast to the lush surrounding landscape and the textured brick walls and paths. The
visitor, constantly encountering the unpredictable, is sensitized to the daring originality of
the art displayed.
It is instructive to compare Museum Abteiberg with another German museum from the
same period that similarly had a profound effect on subsequent museum design—James
Stirling’s Neue Staatsgalerie (1977–84) at Stuttgart. Both are set on irregular terrain and
require urbanistic interventions, but Stirling’s solution revives and updates the 19thcentury
museum paradigm, whereas Hollein has jettisoned all previous solutions. Both
make reference to industrial as well as classical buildings and use the technique of
compositional collage, yet their differences illuminate the manifold possibilities inherent
in the museum program.
Since the 1990s, it has not been uncommon for architects and their clients to break
with the two previously prevailing alternatives—temple or warehouse—for art museums,
but such a typological rupture had been dramatically anticipated two decades earlier, by
Hans Hollein in the Museum Abteiberg, a unique building tailored to an unusual site and
a distinctive collection. The Pritzker Prize laureate of 1985, who was born in Vienna in
1934 and is an artist, teacher, and creator of furniture, interiors, and exhibitions, has at
Mönchengladbach assembled a virtual primer of museum design, one that has brought a
heretofore unknown visceral excitement to the vocation of museum going. In contrast to
later attempts in this genre, however, Hollein’s achievement has contributed to an
intensified appreciation of the museum’s contents rather than making a personal
statement at their expense.
Although Hollein has learned from the institutional buildings of Louis I.Kahn and
Alvar Aalto, he listens to his own music, which—to pursue the metaphor—includes
concerti from the 18th, symphonies from the 19th, and popular songs from the 20th
centuries. His eclecticism served him well in this complex commission, made more
difficult by the need for the museum to serve urban as well as aesthetic ends. Hollein has
linked Mönchengladbach’s town center on the heights with the medieval Ettal Abbey
(today the city hall) on the slopes below, assembling a multi-tiered museum from a series
of discrete elements of different sizes and shapes that provide a series of delightfully
varied indoor and outdoor rooms. Distributing the individual volumes in space rather than
Entries A–F 13
containing them within a monolithic whole allowed him to maintain the picturesque scale
of the town; at the subterranean level, the disparate sections are united.
Although designing a museum is always challenging, it is perhaps less onerous when,
in contrast to those encyclopedic institutions that are in continual flux, its holdings
consist of a focused group of works. Kahn found such a golden opportunity in the
Kimbell Museum, and Hollein has exploited the similar possibilities here, where he
worked closely with the director, Jonathan Cladders, in formulating the program. They
believe that today the museum itself represents a Ges amtkunstwerk (total work of art), “a huge scenario
into which the individual work is fitted…not the autonomy of the work at any price but
the deliberately staged correspondence between space and work of art” (Klotz, 1985, p. 19). This especially applies to contemporary art, which frequently is
deliberately produced for a museum setting. The plan that Hollein and Cladders evolved
is without precedent for this building type. None of the customary tropes, whether
conventional or modern—vaulted galleries arranged symmetrically, the universal space,
the proverbial white cube—are present. Instead, the combination of small, contained
cabinets and larger rooms perfectly accommodates a collection that, although including
some historical pieces, is mainly focused on the post-World War II period and, although
international, is richly endowed with work by American artists of such competing
movements as Minimalism, Post-Painterly Abstraction, and Pop. Many works are in the
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 14
form of installations without customary boundaries or frames and do not necessarily
require natural light.
From the town, one enters the museum precinct via an elevated walkway that leads to
a stone-faced platform whereon is set a tower containing administrative offices; a library;
workshops and storage; a cubic, top-lighted undivided volume for temporary displays; the
shedroofed, zinc-clad “clover-leaf” pavilion for the permanent collection; and the
entrance temple. The platform also covers museum spaces excavated into the hill, and
from it, one can descend gradually to curving terraces, furnished with sculpture, that
border the gardens of the former abbey; beneath a portion of the terraces are additional
exhibition areas.
Hollein has rejected the prescribed routes encountered in traditional museums for
mysterious, polymorphous paths that compel the viewer to wander on her own and
discover unexpected places, then to turn back on them or chance on new chambers.
Because chronology is not the issue it would be for a historically based collection, the ad
hoc character is stimulating rather than frustrating. Upstairs and downstairs, under- and
above-ground, the variously configured galleries illuminated by diverse means—daylight
through windows and skylights and artificial light via incandescent, neon, and fluorescent
fixtures—permit individual works to be perceived in the setting most sympathetic to their
makers’ intentions. The most organized part of the display areas comprises what Hollein
calls the “cloverleaf”—a group of seven “kissing squares,” to use Kahn’s formulation,
that are traversed at the corners. Set under saw-toothed skylights, these rooms are ideal
for big pieces by such artists as Andy Warhol, Frank Stella, Carl Andre, and Roy
Lichtenstein. There are also curved rooms, some with undulating walls that are positively
Baroque in character; double-height spaces and circular steps add further drama.
Hollein’s rejection of the convention of amorphous flexible areas, dominant since the
1940s, in favor of a rich variety of specific and distinctive spaces, would in the 1990s
become a popular solution for art museums—yet another example of the way the
Museum Abteiberg adumbrates many later schemes for this type of institution.
Also prescient is Hollein’s interjection of playfulness and irony into the reverence that
typically pervades museum design. Although marble clads some of the surfaces, it is
combined with less elevated masonry materials like brick and sandstone. Reflective as
well as transparent glass appears; zinc is placed beside chromium and steel. One side of
the temple-like pavilion that forms the main entrance sports graffiti in red paint, matching
the color of some of the railings. Exterior light fixtures have an industrial character in
contrast to the lush surrounding landscape and the textured brick walls and paths. The
visitor, constantly encountering the unpredictable, is sensitized to the daring originality of
the art displayed.
It is instructive to compare Museum Abteiberg with another German museum from the
same period that similarly had a profound effect on subsequent museum design—James
Stirling’s Neue Staatsgalerie (1977–84) at Stuttgart. Both are set on irregular terrain and
require urbanistic interventions, but Stirling’s solution revives and updates the 19thcentury
museum paradigm, whereas Hollein has jettisoned all previous solutions. Both
make reference to industrial as well as classical buildings and use the technique of
compositional collage, yet their differences illuminate the manifold possibilities inherent
in the museum program.
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