The Moon has changed her countenance. Her gentle, irrational, poetic aspect has hardened into scientific reality, suggesting that man needs to seek his poetry elsewhere… By giving up ‘politics’ in favour of studying human problems, by replacing philanthropy with a recognition of human rights, by acquiring a grounding in technology that will enable him to tame the mechanism which he himself has created and which now threatens to destroy him.[1]
In 1958, the Italian-born Lina Bo Bardi was writing from Salvador, Bahia; it was the beginning of her time in the Northeast of Brazil after ten years in São Paulo, where she worked as an architect, a writer, and a lecturer at FAU-USP, the newly constituted São Paulo School of Architecture and Urban Planning. The debates between the Carioca and Paulista Schools of thought, the work of these artists, intellectuals, and architects, their relationships to the succession of governments, these were all coloured by technological provocations to ontological conceptions. A little over a decade after the end of the Second World War, Sputnik 1 had just orbited Earth. Despite still being a largely agricultural society, Brazil was self-consciously preparing for the inevitable threat of revolution, or destruction, posed by its own industrialisation. In some ways, it seems that before their fame and historical importance, the architects of this time and place were quite like those of us today who carry a kernel of moral imperative and a heavy shroud of uncertainty about the ways in which technology and development might be wielded. At a material point of their intersection, in the latter half of the twentieth century in Brazil, is reinforced concrete. Used by architects, politicians, and industrialists of various, if not all, ideological positions, concrete weaves together multiple histories of technology, design, politics, and labour. This paper will examine how it has been contorted into multiple positions, and seek to understand who is building those formworks.
Progressive Architectures
We are temporally situated in a period of accelerated development: between MoMA’s 1943 exhibition ‘Brazil Builds’ and Juscelino Kubitschek’s developmentalist platform (“fifty years progress in five”[2]) to the building of Brasília, architecture had significant symbolic power for the state both domestically and internationally. This period had been immediately preceded by a top-down imagination of Brazilian architecture as Neo-Colonial; The Escola Nacional de Belas Artes, in Rio de Janeiro, and an extensive issue of The Times (of London) dedicated to a “survey” of Brazil both posited a “triumph [of] the noble architecture of the 18th century.”[3] In the short period of fifteen years between The Times’ “Brazil Number” and Philip Goodwin’s encounter with an avenue of Modernist buildings in Rio de Janeiro, many influential architects travelled and sometimes immigrated between Brazil and Europe, carrying with them the ideals and images of a Modern future.[4]
These imaginations of Brazil were largely constructed from the top or outside: physical appearance was consistently symbolic, from the colonial to the supposed folkloric to the modern international, but these symbols were also digested domestically and were reconstituted as aspirations for the country’s future. As such, Kubitschek’s presidency was characterised by uncompromising investment in industrial and infrastructural development, epitomised by the construction of the new capital, Brasília.[5] Brazilian architects Lúcio Costa and Oscar Niemeyer were significantly influenced by Le Corbusier’s tenets of planning and architecture, in which the Modernist ideology of social transformation through design was central. It was equally important to its ideological positioning that Brasília be state-funded and internationally legible as progressive. In this vein, Brasília was tinged with a universal humanism, a transcendent aspiration.[6] It was, in this context, a tidy social posture for Niemeyer and Costa to assume.
João Batista Vilanova Artigas, the Paulista foil to Costa and Niemeyer of the Cariocan school, on the other hand, occupied several contradictory political ideologies. He was more closely aligned to the Communist Party of Brazil (PCB) whose platform was at once anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist, pro-industrialisation but anti-foreign “invasion.”[7] Wading through these intersecting positions, he adopted a position somewhere between the “international…universal…proletarian” and a “national…decolonising subject.”[8] In a 1989 publication he writes: “when we speak of an international style, any communist, like I was at the time, soon knew that the meaning of internationality had a proletarian origin, a universal one. In other words, it was universal by content and national by form.”[9] After the military coup in 1964 and its official dictatorship starting in 1968, the state played a double role of promoting conservative, nationalist ideas while continuing the Kubitschek investment in development that was dependent on international trade and import.[10]
Artigas was in dialogue with Niemeyer and Costa, whose social aspirations for architecture were related to but different from those of the Paulista school in general. Where Brasília’s housing blocks were conceived of as a tool towards egalitarian living, full of aspiration for development as capable of social transformation,[11] the Paulista school was more closely aligned with artistic movements like Arte Povera—Glauber Rocha’s Aesthetics of Hunger and Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed—which have the condition of acknowledging, and not occluding, the reality of poverty, inequality, and suffering.[12] Richard Williams writes that it is “an aesthetic formed by the participants’ poverty, in which poverty is not displayed for the observer as exotic...but is a challenge to the official order of things. Such an aesthetic must eschew signs of luxury; it must resist aspiration... it demands that the participant becomes conscious of his own poverty, and does not attempt to transcend it.”[13]
Whose state?
The resistance to transcendence is a key distinguishing factor between, broadly speaking, the architects of Rio and São Paulo, as well as that of the decolonising subject and the European proletarian. Indeed, the working class of Brazil cannot be understood as separate from the populations of previously enslaved and displaced Africans and indigenous inhabitants, whose identification as a nation is, at the very least, fraught. In this way, anti-colonial movements such as Rocha’s and Freire’s represent the strongest approach to the formation of a solidarity formed against hegemony. In 1974, Artigas wrote that “decolonization in architecture does not happen through prohibiting the importation of models of solutions of aesthetic constructive problems. Instead, it takes place mainly through the decolonization of the awareness of the architects…educating the architects towards the deep study and analysis of the issues in their nations so they can practise them themselves. The colonised position that is characterised by ‘we don’t know’ ascribes to other sectors of the culture something that is our responsibility.”[14]
Furthermore, despite the rapid pace at which the government and private industry invested in industrialisation, Brazil’s working class was still largely agricultural, and identified more with the rural than the urban.[15] The PCB, therefore, did not intend to build for the working class directly; a group here considered as not yet fully formed, and, as elsewhere, a type of reformist action understood as lessening the chances of revolution. Rather, the party position was to cultivate a bourgeois revolution. This would be achieved, for Artigas, by putting the bourgeoisie in contact with unconcealed, rough material constructions meant to bring to consciousness the value of constructive labour.[16] The way that constituting the autonomous Brazilian self intersects with class emancipation is made even more complex by the military coup of 1964 and subsequent dictatorship until 1985, which troubles the fundamental socialist relation to the state. The road to emancipation, and for who, is not so straightforward.
Artigas, for example, was both arrested by and worked for the military dictatorship, the “state” of the time. In this context of impulsive, fickle political power and slow-moving bureaucracy, some previous state-sponsored projects such as the Social Welfare Institute of the State of São Paulo (IPESP) and the State Fund for School Buildings (FECE) carried over from previous democratic governments into the dictatorship. These programs allowed architects, many of them members of the Paulista school, to build.[17] A number of these realised experimental projects were elementary schools in Brazil’s provinces, and one of them was FAU-USP: the newly formed school of architecture in the process of reorganising and reconstituting itself as separate from that of engineering–taking the place of the existing Polytechnic School of São Paulo. Artigas, who was himself a polytechnic-educated engineer-architect, wrote a new curriculum for FAU: one which centred the studio course and was supported by history and technology courses. Important for Artigas was the “autonomy” of the architect: autonomy from engineering and within a professional context as a discipline-of-itself with authority.[18] For Artigas, the concept of the “project” was the realm of the architect’s social responsibility: “an instrument of political and ideological emancipation."[19]
Building, Pedagogy
The ideology of consciousness as power is manifest in many of Artigas’ buildings, which included villas for wealthy clients which exposed the structural concrete, the encounter supposed to precipitate bourgeois consciousness and revolution. Artigas’ state-funded elementary schools are a precursor to FAU: with many activities under one gigantic, horizontally long-spanning concrete roof supported by improbably slender columns. The image of this structural gesture is most explicit in FAU, which gets more and more solid as you go up, and stubbornly ensures that the ground floor is always open, without doors or windows, to the street and gardens. This combined “roughly finished” and inverted structural conceit want to tell a dual story of their making: of its advanced conception of engineering and its fabrication by manual labour. Adrian Forty has described FAU in a telling language: “primitive in its finish, reliant on a very low level of manual skill in its construction, [it is] a building that makes use of the one material that Latin America has in abundance, unskilled labour, and combines it with Latin America’s other great resource, human invention…”[20]
In 1968, Sérgio Ferro was a 30-year old professor at FAU writing criticism of the Paulista School for its use of concrete from a Marxist perspective. Originally written in 1980, Concrete as Weapon, writes a material history of its implications on labour and its division along and of class lines. From 1960-1970, Ferro was a founder and member of the radical group Arquitetura Nova with Flávio Império, and Rodrigo Lefèvre, which sought to build with ‘poor’ methods (rather than being made, as in Artigas, to simply ‘look’ poor), which often resulted in simple vaulted buildings, which was understood as symbolically ‘primitive.’[21] Arquitetura Nova, for their part, acknowledge formal and aesthetic similarity with the rest of the Paulista school, yet position themselves as separate in their political ideology. In particular, they diverge from the hegemonic commitment of architecture as a profession to nationalist, modernist developmental projects which were willfully blind to their own process of making. These ‘exceptional’ projects were just that–exceptions from what they saw as the ‘daily’ work of architecture. A critique of the means of construction–which was so technology-intensive, and whose logic was so divorced from the physical labour of its making, this particular language of development, in their view, further increased a condition of dependence. “A chiasmus:” he writes, “at the construction site the know-how declines, resulting in deskilling and deeper subordination of the workforce; knowing emigrates, distancing itself more and more from doing, and draws more power and aura into capital.”[22] The increasingly detailed prescriptions made by architects for the labourer are in this context seen as political subordination; that in increasing the abstract complexity of the detail and the degree of fragmentation of construction tasks results in obscuring the project as a whole to the labourer, withholding from them the potential power of having knowledge – somehow echoing Artigas’ diagnosis of the colonised position.
Deskilling Labour
The story of reinforced concrete as a (symbolic) building material in Brazil is often told through the ideological lens of the foils of the Cariocan and Paulista schools of architectural production, which reach their apogees in the sculptural transcendence of Brasília, and the rough, exposed, honesty of FAU-USP. Both have their origins in the Modernist gift of international, emancipatory architecture. Yet the possibilities for concrete architecture were also, in part, determined by the creation of an industry and its labourers.
At the end of the nineteenth century, concrete was brought to Brazil by German and French entrepreneurs. It was used in multiple scales of building works: from residential buildings to infrastructural projects, namely bridges and dams. The potential for concrete construction was attractive to investors as an emerging market, as well as to the structural engineers trained in the Polytechnic Schools of Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Salvador, and Pernambuco as an innovative structural system. In the 1890s, the Hennebique system of constructing reinforced concrete column and beam assemblies as a single, monolithic element was patented and exported from France and imported across the modernising world as a primary system of construction.[23] In Brazil, its widespread adoption was the result of several factors. As a large-scale construction system, it was favoured to steel, which required rolling facilities and technical expertise in assembly, which would have been imported from the United States at a high cost. The relative availability of cement, especially in and around São Paulo, compensated for the initial import of steel reinforcement.[24] Most important, however, was the characteristic of its required labour, as intimated above. Reinforced concrete could be assembled on site, with no relationship to the primary producers of the material, by unskilled labourers.[25] The large, urbanising population of Brazil meant that unskilled labour was widely, and cheaply, available. Furthermore, labourers with knowledge of carpentry who were needed for the construction of formwork were also present in Brazil, having emigrated from Europe.[26] These factors made reinforced concrete an attractive constructive system across multiple, power-wielding disciplines. It was at once a cheap, domestically-powered, internationally-recognized, rational, aesthetically symbolic choice.
These factors, though appearing natural to the material, were variously improved and constructed. Previously, Lyceums of Arts and Crafts across Brazil trained a manufacturing class to power industrial and artistic production. These included “workshops of steel forging, carpentry, stained glass, mosaics, carvings and stuccos, as well as a body of trade labourers.”[27] Some of these forms of labour were carried on in the carpenters needed to make formwork. However, the new tasks of concrete construction were largely traditionless: transportation of materials, arrangement of reinforcement, mixing concrete. In this way, the system of reinforced concrete construction demanded that the construction site, once a place of craft and perhaps artistry, approximate the factory. In late nineteenth-century Europe, there was high proportion of unionisation among trade labourers and increasing strikes activity. The newly formed group of concrete labourers, who largely had no historical ties to these building trades, were also attractive to contractors as a means to bypass unionised labour.[28] The discretisation of production granted architects a mode of designing and thinking buildings as increasingly abstracted from the labour that would materialise drawings. This transformed construction work into strict adherence to prescription. This phenomenon is legible in “increasingly detailed drawings [which acted as] a mediation between the workers and the work they needed to carry out. By codifying the parts of construction into service orders” a new condition of work and the “unskilled” labourer were created.[29]
Drawing Building
Evolving in inverse proportion to the deskilling of the manual labourer was the role of the mental expert. The specialised mathematical and chemical formulae that describe and quantify the performance of concrete structures is wholly knowable before the physical process of construction. The sizing and strength of concrete members, calculated by engineers, could be negotiated with architects’ design decisions at the drawing board, down to tiny fractions of measurements.[30] The position of the architect, however, is more ambiguous than that of the labourer and the engineer. In one sense, architects could push the limits of the profession towards pure, formal expression, free of material or constructive limitation. In another, architects were put in much closer dialogue with other groups—with engineering-trained architects like Artigas were in an especially comfortable position. Still yet, the subsumption of the architect by the engineer remains to be seen. Among these groupings, the position of the architect within this hierarchy of those involved in making buildings is the most ambiguous, a tenuous and uncertain form of power. Nevertheless, the ways in which architects participate in this distribution of labour power is important to consider, especially among those of us for whom this form of engagement is a reality. The primary site of the architect’s work—the drawing, is a useful document through which we may read a specific language of choreographed labour.
This concrete column detail [Figure 1] by Artigas from the Anhembi Tennis Club was designed in the same year as FAU-USP. It employs a similar structural conceit as the FAU columns, which get most slender at the vertical centre and perform an improbable cantilever. The drawing is neatly rendered in black ink of several line weights, with a lighter concrete hatch filling in the thicker cut lines. Red dashed lines indicate a section cut axis on the side view, and its corresponding view from the top sits in line with the dimensioned geometry to its right. The high contrast composition is unsmudged, and the text is a clear, sans-serif, hand-written print. The note at the top indicates that the concrete is exposed, and the formwork is made from Madeirit plywood. At a 1:20 scale, dimensions as small as 3 cm are marked. This drawing clearly belongs to a set in which, at larger scales, the column is located amongst the building as a whole. The reader is made to orient themself with the marked projection “B” and the single line ground plane, with a dashed indication of a footing. It clearly communicates the dynamic formal quality of the column, its material composition and weight, and its symbolic performance as a hyper-specific, highly-designed architectural component. It is neither intuitive nor clarified in this drawing how the column is constructed. The shape of the formwork might be intuited to fill the negative space of the page, though in planar representation it is impossible to understand fully. The clean outlines do not describe the roughness of its making, as the timber formwork relief in photographs and in Artigas’ own textual descriptions do. Here, at least, we readers are not brought to a consciousness of the column’s constructive labour.
Figures 2 & 3. Vilanova Artigas, Central Column Details, 1961, 1968, in Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo,” 319.
Two cross-sectional column details drawn by Artigas for FAU-USP: on the left [Fig. 2], a preliminary draft and on the right [Fig. 3], the final detail. In comparing the two very similar drawings, the changes specific to an increased precision in engineering relative to the original architectural impulse is revealed. Having an engineering background has certainly made the draft column detail quite accurate already, Artigas clearly knows the sizing of the rainwater and ventilation pipes that will run along the columns, as these remain unchanged. Otherwise, the overall cross-sectional shape seems to have been squished slightly, from a perfect circle to a slightly more oblong ellipse as the column steps out from the footing by 2”. The later detail also makes note that the Oxycret coating is to be rendered both coarsely and finely. The attention to material and precise dimensioning make clear that the author of these drawings has, on the drawing board, a high level of control.
Figure 4. Luciano Fiaschi, Fôrma e cimbramento do pilar externo, FAU-USP, 1967, in Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo,” 305.
Figure 5. Photographer unknown, FAU-USP durante a obra do edifício, FAU-USP, 1967, in Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo,” 320.
Figure 6. José Moscardi, Edifício da FAU em construção, FAU-USP, 1967, in Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo,” 321.
Figure 7. Photographer unknown, Fôrmas e Armação para concretagem da cobertura, FAU-USP, 1967, in Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo,” 307.
Figure 8. Photographer unknown, Artigas, seu cigarrinho e a fauusp em obras, FAU-USP, 1967, from “Vilanova Artigas (@vilanovaartigas) | Instagram,” accessed May 5, 2023, https://www.instagram.com/p/BVsadxNFt9X/.
In addition to reading the drawings, reading photographs of the building during construction allow us an insight into the process by which prescription has been translated, interpreted, and enacted by different groups of people within a single building process. Here [Figure 4] we can clearly see the immense amount of timber scaffolding necessary to support the formwork for the concrete columns of FAU. The timber planks that here act as the formwork are thinly dimensioned, which underline the legibility of the relief left in the exposed concrete as timber. The grid of scaffolding which supports this formwork has been quickly but regularly nailed together. In the final form of the column, this immense scale and complexity, the amount of work necessary to support the pouring of one column, is much less clearly expressed than the surface of the material used to do so. These lean, ancillary structures were built up to a height approximately equal to the height of FAU itself, over four stories tall [Figure 5]. Piles of timber and heaps of moved earth surround the building grounds, with raw, undimensioned timber light and electrical posts standing near. Scraps of wood forwork and scaffolding, as they are removed from use, are scattered around with no order dictating their discard [Figure 6]. On the roof, several men are depicted aligning a rebar cage, wearing blazers and straw hats, surrounded by a complex amount of scaffolding, formwork, reinforcement, and electrical wires for power tools [Figure 7]. It is a rare instance of people being photographed while working; many of the other photos containing people depict Artigas or other supervisors posing, looking proud [Figure 8].
A recent doctoral thesis presented at IAU/USP conducted and recorded interviews with several of FAU’s construction workers. This research work is a rare and valuable source for unpacking the real, lived implications of Artigas’ drawings as well as enriching the legacy of the building as a monument of socialist architecture. One worker, named Abdias Nogueira da Silva, was hired at age 18 or 19 with no building experience. In his words: “There were a lot of guys making concrete manually at USP, mixing it, driving around and filling the carts with concrete. I took it from one side to the other [...]. There was a person in charge to make the guys fill the carts with concrete and take them away. I was saying to my supervisor '- Look, I can't carry these wagons with that weight'. A decent supervisor would say: '- No, it's okay, then reduce it a little bit'. But he said: '- No, no, the cart goes like that'. There I abused myself. I arrived and told the guy to fill the cart: '- Fill more, fill more, fill more'. Then I said: '- Now you take it'. Then he said '- I'm going to send you away'.”[31]
In some ways, the account is commonplace; at any building site which requires bodily strain for the movement and working of materials, differences in strength and endurance inevitably occur. The dynamic recounted is one where one person holds power over another, where autonomous decision-making is prohibited, and where the nature of the relationship turns combative, but there is one who has the last word. That the material rendering of FAU prompts such inquiry is, at a high level, quite compelling as an aesthetic proposition. The scale and complexity of detail for the one column or the roof do not suggest that a single person could construct it, nor does it attempt to sublimate its material construction. Further than this reading of surface, however, I wonder: does this scale of work imply a collective?
Ads and Acrópole
The disappearing counterpart to concrete, of course, is its formwork. The iconic wood-plank relief legible in the exposed concrete surfaces of FAU were meant to speak of the discarded but necessary first “building.” The details above specify the formwork material carefully: “Forma Madeirit.” Industrias Madeirit manufacturing company was consolidated during the construction of Brasília that produced coated plywood. The industrially produced, resin-bonded plywood sheets were instrumental in reducing formwork cost, increasing the surface area per sheet, and streamlined transport and storage. Manufactured in standardised dimensions of 1.10 by 2.20 metres, it is likely that the structural grid of FAU–with spans of 11 metres totalling 110 by 66 metres–considered the constructive logistics of using this product. The perimeter of the circular section pillar [Figures 2 and 3] is exactly 2.20 metres, two vertical Madeirit planks.[32] Here, we see the extent to which architecture and industry become intertwined. Ads for Madeirit were commonly run in Acrópole, a Brazilian architecture magazine, which published monthly from May 1938 until November 1971. It represented neither the Paulista nor the Cariocan school, and in fact was a popular forum of discussion for architects across the country. In a 1955 issue, a two page spread [Figure 9] sponsored by the company described and illustrated with photographs how to build formwork for reinforced concrete with the product. In this way, it was doubly branded as an accessible material for autoconstruction, as well as the material used to achieve the most innovative, monumental works of architecture [Figure 10].
Figure 9. “As Fôrmas Para Concreto Armado,” Revista Acrópole, March 1955, 288-89.
In July of 1965, the magazine published a special issue dedicated to a critical moment of dissent within the Paulista School. Artigas opens with an essay entitled “A False Crisis,” in which he reinforces his “concept” that was integral to the curriculum he wrote for FAU; that architecture occupies a position of synthesis. A synthesis of formalism and functionalism, where the simultaneous study of economics, social sciences, history, and creative studio project form a “new artistic conscience.”[33] In this way, Artigas positions himself as the intellectual father of Ferro, Império, and Lefèvre; absorbing their critiques as a goal of his pedagogy. The members of Arquitetura Nova reiterate their critique of the labour practices that reinforced concrete construction entailed, and include their own projects as alternative modes of practice. These are conceived of as part of a pre-industrial genealogy; “popular and traditional techniques which afford an improvisational, living, contemporary creative activity,” rejecting the “densenho de prancheta,”[34] designs which are the result of the technology of the drawing board (prancheta de desenho). Their anxieties about architectural and constructive labour as a result of technological change and entanglement with industry were astute criticisms of their time—and ours.
Bibliography
Artigas, João Batista Vilanova. A Função Social Do Arquiteto. Cidade Aberta. São Paulo, SP: Nobel, 1989.
———. “Uma Falsa Crise.” Revista Acrópole, July 1965.
Bo Bardi, Lina. “The Moon (1958).” In Stones Against Diamonds, translated by Anthony Doyle and Pamela Johnston, 25–26. Architecture Words 12. Architectural Association Publications, 2013.
Contier, Felipe. “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo.” IAU/USP, 2014.
Contier, Felipe, and Renato Anelli. “João Vilanova Artigas and the Meanings of Concrete in Brazil.” The Journal of Architecture 20, no. 3 (May 4, 2015): 445–73.
Deckker, Zilah Quezado. “Revolutions: Vargas, Le Corbusier, and Reinforced Concrete.” In Brazil Built: The Architecture of the Modern Movement in Brazil, 1st edition., 7–21. London ; New York: Taylor & Francis, 2001.
Ferro, Sérgio. “Concrete as Weapon.” Translated by Silke Kapp and Alice Fiuza. Harvard Design Magazine 46 (2018): 8–33.
———. “Residencia Em Cotia.” Revista Acrópole, July 1965.
Forty, Adrian. “Concrete and Labour.” In Concrete and Culture: A Material History, 225–52. London : Chicago: Reaktion Books, 2012.
Ioris, Rafael R. “‘Fifty Years in Five’ and What’s in It for Us? Development Promotion, Populism, Industrial Workers and ‘Carestia’ in 1950s Brazil.” Journal of Latin American Studies 44, no. 2 (2012): 261–84.
León, Ana María. “Designing Dissent: Vilanova Artigas and the São Paulo School of Architecture.” In Architecture and the Paradox of Dissidence, edited by Ines Weizman, 0 ed., 74–88. Routledge, 2014.
Marianno, José. “The Country House.” The Times, June 21, 1927. The Times Digital Archive.
Segawa, Hugo M. “Episodes of a Great and Modern Brazil 1950-1980.” In Architecture of Brazil, 1900-1990, translated by Denilson Amade Souza, 187–226. New York: Springer, 2013.
———. “The Affirmation of a Hegemony 1945-1970.” In Architecture of Brazil, 1900-1990, translated by Denilson Amade Souza, 145–86. New York: Springer, 2013.
Williams, Richard. “Towards and Aesthetics of Poverty: Architecture and the Neo-Avant-Garde in 1960s Brazil.” In Neo-Avant-Garde, by David Hopkins, 197–219. Amsterdam: BRILL, 2006.
Notes
[1] Lina Bo Bardi, “The Moon (1958),” in Stones Against Diamonds, trans. Anthony Doyle and Pamela Johnston, Architecture Words 12 (Architectural Association Publications, 2013), 25–26.
[2] Rafael R. Ioris, “‘Fifty Years in Five’ and What’s in It for Us? Development Promotion, Populism, Industrial Workers and ‘Carestia’ in 1950s Brazil,” Journal of Latin American Studies 44, no. 2 (2012): 262.
[3] José Marianno, “The Country House,” The Times, June 21, 1927, The Times Digital Archive, 48.
[4] Zilah Quezado Deckker, “Revolutions: Vargas, Le Corbusier, and Reinforced Concrete,” in Brazil Built: The Architecture of the Modern Movement in Brazil, 1st edition (London ; New York: Taylor & Francis, 2001), 9-11.
[5] Ioris, “‘Fifty Years in Five’ and What’s in It for Us?” 283.
[6] Richard Williams, “Towards and Aesthetics of Poverty: Architecture and the Neo-Avant-Garde in 1960s Brazil,” in Neo-Avant-Garde, by David Hopkins (Amsterdam: BRILL, 2006), 203.
[7] Ana María León, “Designing Dissent: Vilanova Artigas and the São Paulo School of Architecture,” in Architecture and the Paradox of Dissidence, ed. Ines Weizman, 0 ed. (Routledge, 2014), 75.
[8] Hugo M. Segawa, “The Affirmation of a Hegemony 1945-1970,” electronic resource, in Architecture of Brazil, 1900-1990, trans. Denilson Amade Souza (New York: Springer, 2013), 169.
[9] João Batista Vilanova Artigas, A Função Social Do Arquiteto, Cidade Aberta (São Paulo, SP: Nobel, 1989), 60.
[10] León, “Designing Dissent: Vilanova Artigas and the São Paulo School of Architecture,” 80-81.
[11] Williams, “Towards and Aesthetics of Poverty: Architecture and the Neo-Avant-Garde in 1960s Brazil,” 203.
[12] ibid.
[13] Williams, “Towards and Aesthetics of Poverty: Architecture and the Neo-Avant-Garde in 1960s Brazil,” 200.
[14] Segawa, “The Affirmation of a Hegemony 1945-1970,” 168.
[15] Felipe Contier and Renato Anelli, “João Vilanova Artigas and the Meanings of Concrete in Brazil,” The Journal of Architecture 20, no.3 (May 4, 2015): 455.
[16] Williams, “Towards and Aesthetics of Poverty: Architecture and the Neo-Avant-Garde in 1960s Brazil,” 205.
[17] Hugo M. Segawa, “Episodes of a Great and Modern Brazil 1950-1980,” in Architecture of Brazil, 1900-1990, trans. Denilson Amade Souza (New York: Springer, 2013), 206-207.
[18] León, “Designing Dissent: Vilanova Artigas and the São Paulo School of Architecture,” 79.
[19] Segawa, “The Affirmation of a Hegemony 1945-1970,” 167.
[20] Adrian Forty, “Concrete and Labour,” in Concrete and Culture: A Material History (London : Chicago: Reaktion Books, Limited Chicago Distribution Center [Distributor], 2012), 225.
[21] Williams, “Towards and Aesthetics of Poverty: Architecture and the Neo-Avant-Garde in 1960s Brazil,” 213.
[22] Sérgio Ferro, “Concrete as Weapon,” trans. Silke Kapp and Alice Fiuza, Harvard Design Magazine 46 (2018): 19.
[23] Contier and Anelli, “João Vilanova Artigas and the Meanings of Concrete in Brazil,” 446-47.
[24] Deckker, “Revolutions: Vargas, Le Corbusier, and Reinforced Concrete,” 13.
[25] Forty, “Concrete and Labour,” 231-32.
[26] Contier and Anelli, “João Vilanova Artigas and the Meanings of Concrete in Brazil,” 446-47.
[27] ibid., 448.
[28] Forty, “Concrete and Labour,” 227.
[29] Contier and Anelli, “João Vilanova Artigas and the Meanings of Concrete in Brazil,” 448.
[30] Forty, “Concrete and Labour,” 240.
[31] Statement by Abdias Nogueira to the author, on 06/02/2012 in Felipe Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo” my translation, (São Paulo, IAU/USP, 2014), 301.
[32] Contier, “O Edifício Da FAUUSP e Os Materiais Do Brutalismo,” my translation, 302.
[33] João Batista Vilanova Artigas, “Uma Falsa Crise,” Revista Acrópole, my translation, July 1965,21-22.
[34] Sérgio Ferro, “Residencia Em Cotia,” Revista Acrópole, my translation, July 1965, 38.