Travel Without Methodology · Women

Planet Seeker

Sinomap Press

January 2023

68.00 (CNY)

Planet Seeker

Planet Seeker is a flagship travel and lifestyle brand under the China Map Publishing Group， whose creative team has collaborated deeply with Lonely Planet for over a decade. Their publications have long dominated the domestic travel book market， serving as a bridge for travel enthusiasts to understand China and connect with the world.

In Hangzhou， I visited the works of three architects， Wang Shu’s Xiangshan Campus， Kengo Kuma’s Folk Art Museum， and finally Tadao Ando’s Big Roof. They each used different languages -- return， fade， and highlight -- to articulate three possible relationships between architecture and nature， showing me that the interaction isn’t just a straightforward conflict.

Xiangshan Chapter --" Part One

Bus 314 took me， swaying， away from Hangzhou’s city center， the landscape opening up and sunlight pouring unobstructed through the windows， leaving passengers sweating profusely after an hour’s ride. I got off at the bus stop of the China Academy of Art’s Xiangshan Campus， only for clouds to gather suddenly， darkening the sky considerably.

I walked into the campus along a tarred road parallel to the river. The river was narrow， its surface low， with stone revetments almost entirely covered by vegetation， untouched by deliberate carving. On the other side of the river rose the gradually ascending Xiangshan. To the left of the road were buildings of the southern campus. These buildings， mostly angular and misaligned， seemed to grow out of the ground， changing with the terrain to create a sense of meandering fluidity despite their straightforward lines. On the gray or white facades， large and small irregular square windows opened.

The planning and design of the entire China Academy of Art’s Xiangshan Campus were primarily completed by Wang Shu and his “Amateur Architecture Studio.” Since winning the Pritzker Prize in 2012， this architect has become a leading figure in China’s architectural field， with several of his works becoming must-visit spots for architecture enthusiasts. One day， I pulled out his book Building Houses from home， which devoted considerable ink to this project that started ten years before the award. Closing the book， I immediately purchased a ticket to Hangzhou.

After I walked 200 meters， a lake appeared on the left side of the road， originally a fish pond owned by farmers， which Wang Shu preserved and replanted with reeds to create its current appearance. To the right of the road， a small bridge led to the famous “Water Shore Mountain Residence，” a complex for administration， accommodation， and dining within the campus， more renowned than the campus itself， as it was completed by Wang Shu after his award， but I was completely captivated by the overall layout and planning of the campus. Wang Shu wrote in his book: “This is not a design; it’s the construction of a world.” Reading this， I was deeply moved.

At first glance， this “world construction” seemed careless， with the arrangement of buildings seemingly arbitrary， but on second thought， perhaps this is the genius of the layout， where everything “makes do” with the terrain， light， and local materials.

The architecture utilized large quantities of bamboo， grey bricks， and dawn redwood， recycling over seven million tiles and bricks from around Zhejiang using a local traditional technique known as tile splicing， pronounced “pán” in Chinese. Originally， due to frequent typhoons in eastern Zhejiang， artisans used broken tiles and bricks in building construction for quick repairs. Although called tile splicing， the materials inside were varied， including not only tiles but also grass， mud， wood， stone， brick， and porcelain， almost all of which were second-hand. This technique， demanding high craftsmanship， is now nearly lost. These discarded old materials at Xiangshan completed a cycle of architectural life， while this ecological and educational cycle was imparted to students and teachers.

Thus， the architectural texture I saw was not just rustic; it was almost austere， like the long， empty corridors， rough walls and floors， and the facades and walls pieced together with broken tiles. I also noticed that some dormitory buildings seemed to rely only on skylights for lighting， which from a resident’s perspective， might not be comfortable.

Wang Shu himself remarked that Xiangshan’s architecture poses challenges for its users， such as the lighting， as he tried to create the contemplative dimness found in traditional buildings. What about those unaccustomed to such lighting? They just have to adapt.

The architect was clearly self-assured， first ambitiously constructing a world， then setting rules for its inhabitants. Wang Shu has a theory called “Returning to the Path of Nature，” which isn’t about individual construction but reflects on the advance and retreat of Chinese architecture from a traditional perspective. Perhaps Xiangshan represents his classical pastoral utopia experiment. Undeniably， it offers users an alternative to modern living， potentially allowing them to cultivate a natural landscape within their hearts.

Xiangshan Chapter --" Part Two

As the daylight faded， most of the campus was enveloped in contemplative light. I crossed the small bridge， circled around Water Shore Mountain Residence， and first visited the Folk Art Museum halfway up Xiangshan. The Folk Art Museum is a breath of fresh air in the thoroughly “Wang Shu” campus， graceful and delicate， combining Japanese modesty and Chinese restraint. The designer is Japanese architect Kengo Kuma. Apart from Beijing’s Sanlitun Village， this was my first time seeing the works of this architect in person.

The site was originally a hillside tea garden， which the designer adapted to by using parallelograms as units， assembling a series of undulating spaces that were geometrically aesthetic， both in plan and elevation. There were two paths to the Folk Art Museum from the base of the hill; I chose the slower one: ascending the gentle slope from the side， circling half the building to the main entrance， to appreciate its various angles and distances gradually. However， due to the widespread circulation of aerial photographs of the building， most of what I had seen were such images， so it was unrecognizable from the ground. To me， no matter how attractive the rooftop looked from above， it was merely the delight of aerial photographers. I believe the designer would agree， having once said， “Do not look down on architecture from above because humans are creatures that continually walk the earth.”

In Kuma’s philosophy， architecture should not be too dominant or conspicuous， so he downplays its presence， dissolving its form， ultimately achieving “architectural disappearance.” Where does it disappear? Naturally， into its surroundings. Kuma favors natural materials like wood， bamboo， and stone while adept at fragmenting building exteriors. In his buildings， there is always a “particle” element， such as cut stone slabs， densely packed bamboo poles， and grid-like glass， which allows light to freely pass through the building， greatly diminishing the boundaries of the architecture.

It is said that Kuma greatly admires Wang Shu， and they both intuitively used a large number of tiles at Xiangshan. Kuma has expressed his fondness for Chinese tiles， considering them light and “unsupported.” A few years ago， at the Xingfu Knowledge Museum in Chengdu， he used tiles as “particles.” This time， he used tens of thousands of locally fired tiles on the exterior walls of the Folk Art Museum， arranging them parallel to the ground and stringing them together with stainless steel cables. This setup made the tiles appear to float in the air， truly suspended without any support.

The museum’s exhibits are spread over three floors. While referred to as floors， they are almost stairless， connected instead by ramps， creating a vast unified interior space. Upon reaching the second floor， the rain suddenly began to fall， and through the large glass windows， I could see the scattered rooftops and the particle-like tile “wall.” The rain arrived suddenly but lingered tenderly. An hour later， as the rain eased， I took my umbrella down another small path， ultimately arriving at Water Shore Mountain Residence.

Water Shore Mountain Residence’s original name was “Tile Mountain.” Its extensive green tiles cover a village-sized world， and the building is semi-open， divided from east to west into several independent yet interconnected functional areas. Walking from the easternmost entrance， I was treated to the classical garden’s design principle of “a change in scenery at every turn.” The path was initially hidden， but a few steps brought me to a waterfront terrace， and before adjusting to the open landscape， I entered a courtyard enclosed on all sides， with interlocking staircases appearing from and leading to unknown places.

Looking up， square skylights like hazy white lamps blurred the eaves’ outlines， the dazzling wooden roof structure resembling a huge， bizarre artwork tightly under the tile roof. The building features large areas of yellow rammed-earth walls and wooden elements， not only fostering a sense of familiarity with old objects but also tempering the varied forms， stabilizing the view. Leaving Water Shore Mountain Residence， crossing the river again on my way back， I looked back to appreciate the sheer volume of the architecture， like a slowly unfolding scroll， endlessly intriguing. Plants carelessly spread from the riverbanks to the base of the bricks and stones， adding a touch of wildness to the scene. At that moment， looking back at the Folk Art Museum atop Xiangshan， it seemed to disappear into another batch of dark clouds.

Take bus 314 or any other bus to Jiangkou Village station， then walk 100 meters to the school gate. Folk Art Museum tickets are ten yuan， and all else is free.