The exhibition ‘Alternative Histories’ was a collaboration between the Architectural Foundation, the Drawing Matter archive, and curators Jantje Engels and Marius Grootveld, in which over eighty contemporary architectural practices were invited to make an architectural model in response to an historical architectural drawing.

As epitomised in the works of Renzo Piano, Frank Gehry, and Daniel Libeskind, the ‘new museum’ of art claims its own architectural typology. With asymmetrical silhouettes, gallery spaces that eschew the much derided ‘white cube’, and cleverly conceived circulation systems, the new museum has been heralded as revolutionising the display of art. Yet its function extends beyond the display and conservation of art. The new art museum is conceived as a multifaceted cultural centre – a public forum – where art and culture are democratised, and families, scholars, students, tourists, and teachers come together. At the same time, the new museum competes with other entertainment venues on a commercial level. As a cultural factory replete with an ambitious programme of temporary exhibitions, media facilities, restaurants, and shops, the new museum emphasises consumption as much as it does contemplation. In fact, the array of non-artrelated diversions contained in the new museum is often more important to the institution’s success than the art itself.

By 1911, Rudolph Schindler had concluded that all architecture in the West leading up to the early twentieth century had been fixated on structure and mass, in stark contrast to the new ‘space architecture’ he championed. His dismissive categorisation of the traditional room as some kind of evolutionary relative of the cave is a reminder of the moment when a strand of Western architecture blossomed from containment into openness; from a predictable past to an exciting and uncertain future – the gift of modern architecture.

Valery’s cry for clarity stiffens my resolve to write from the position of a working life in architectural practice. Sometimes we need to raise our heads above the heat of daily battle with budgets and restrictive regulations, to remind ourselves of what it was that made architecture such a compelling field of study in the first place. Personal experience of works of architecture persuades us that architectural design provides useful evidence of human intelligence. And there is a case to be made for connecting the widely accepted value of historic architecture to the less well-established position of contemporary architecture in the culture, to pay attention to what Robin Evans once called ‘the small poetic voice of modern architecture’.3

One of the most conventional architectural elements is the plinth. Neither a specifically modern nor Western element, it is a familiar feature of religious buildings, and associated in premodern societies with the altar. The plinth is commonly understood as an expression of the elevation of the structure towards the sacred and its separation from profane daily life. A number of fairly recent publications have discussed the function of the architectural plinth in the twentieth century. The architectural historian Fritz Neumeyer, architectural historian and theorist K. Michael Hays, and architect and theorist Pier Vittorio Aureli have all argued that the role of the plinth in the work of Mies van der Rohe is mediation.1 In this, they modify a common modern conception of the plinth as an element that isolates and separates a building from its environment.

Between 1965 and 1975 there was an intense debate in Italy about theatrical culture, which encompassed theatre building and the urban, social, and political roles of theatre. It was articulated around three terms that imply three ways of relating the theatrical building and the city: the temple, the machine, and the caravan. This unusually rich debate has been largely ignored in the historiography of Italian and European architecture, despite its intensity and the importance of its protagonists for the architectural culture of the twentieth century.

Gilles Deleuze sought an ontology that did not, according to Todd May, ‘reduce being to the knowable’. Instead he sought a widening of thought that would allow one ‘to palpate the unknowable’. Key to this expanded field of thought is an ability to think the ‘material synthetic unity’ of ‘sensation’. Deleuze drew upon art in general, and painting in particular, to describe both the nuances of sensation and how to think sensation.

Often thought of in somewhat static, explanatory terms, the typical architectural diagram is used as a form of shorthand to succinctly communicate condensed information about a project and/or its conditions. In this way, the diagram functions as kind of coding device. Contrary to this typical coding function, Georges Teyssot describes the potential of a diagram that functions not as a code (mould) but rather as a modulator: ‘while molding leads to a permanent state of things, modulation introduces the factor of time’.4 Modulating is simply, as Deleuze says, ‘molding in a variable and continuous manner’.5 Critical to the modulating function is a degree of indeterminacy, which allows a diagram to be both responsive and flexible.

In February 1944 a thirty-nine-year-old itinerant architect named Heinrich ‘Henry’ Klumb [1] (1905–1984), moved to the Caribbean island of Puerto Rico for what was supposed to be a short-term, public works job with the island’s provincial government, that is, a territorial government that had been established and was largely supervised by the American federal government. At the time of his arrival on the island, Klumb was a one-time German immigrant, a former protégé of Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Kahn’s occasional design and business partner during the mid-to-late 1930s, and a moderately successful designer of a variety of projects and building types. These early projects and building types included residences, prototype prefabricated buildings and houses, museum exhibits, furniture pieces, and a number of housing and urban master plans. Over the next forty years he would emerge as Puerto Rico’s most locally well-known and prolific modern architect. His major successes on the island consisted of his public works, university buildings, churches, residences, and office buildings. Outside of Puerto Rico, his association with Frank Lloyd Wright has also generated a measure of interest.

How long does the present moment last? Where and when does the past begin and how does the present end? In physics – or more precisely in the special theory of relativity – the present can be defined as the coordinate origin in a spacetime diagram – an unextended point that separates an observer’s past and future light cones. From that point of view, the present has no duration at all; the past instantly assimilates the future without any hesitation in between. However, time perception tells us that we actually experience a ‘here and now’. Psychologists believe that the time range we perceive as the present, the socalled specious present, lasts about three seconds – the interval duration after which the brain may be said to reset its attention. This is already infinitely more than no duration at all but this recognition is still not enough to explain concepts like the present time or ‘today’ as an indicator of the contemporary. In the domain of history, the present seems to be a much more complex construction. When we speak of phenomena as contemporary, we place them in an extended present. We concede that the present encompasses the recent past and the near future – a temporal range that provides a stage for the actions and reactions that shape our world.