Review: Making - by Thomas Heatherwick

The book that charts Heatherwick's progress from craft enthusiast to the da Vinci of modern design.

2012 has been a big year for Thomas Heatherwick and his eponymous design studio. His first redesigned Routemaster hit the road in February, with seven more slated to travel the streets throughout the Olympics. He also bagged the commission to design the “cauldron” that will house the Olympic flame as it burns throughout the games. Then there’s the studio’s behemoth retrospective opening at the V&A this Thursday, with the less than understated title of “Designing the Extraordinary”. Ten days ago the Guardian called Heatherwick the “new da Vinci of design”.

But how did it all happen?  Making, a hefty tome published by Thames & Hudson, probes that very question. It’s no short story. At 600 pages and weighing more than a rucksack, readers have the opportunity to digest more than two decades worth of Heatherwick’s output. The book is a beautiful, well designed object - one flick through will quell any suspicions that it might be merely coffee-table fodder.  Its dense swath of material is leavened by an airy layout, process diagrams and double page photo-spreads.

It’s also a look into the personal history of a man who stands – as many “starchitects” do – one step removed from the public spectacle of their work. Raised in London, Heatherwick descends from an artistic tradition. His grandfather was a musician who wrote pacifist poetry, his grandmother head of textiles at Marks and Spencer. His mother, Stefany Tomalin, was a painter, jeweller and authority on beading, while his father Hugh Heatherwick trained as a pianist before working as a creative mentor. Trips to exhibitions, crafts fairs, iron forges and futuristic housing projects in Milton Keynes were a routine part of young Thomas’ upbringing.

A fluidity of mediums was central to his education as an artist. Seven years of studies at Manchester Polytechnic and the RCA in London allowed him to dabble in plastics, glassblowing, ceramics, embroidery and woodworking. He lamented the disconnect between the “theoretic” discipline of design and the “practical” skills of craftsmanship. It was during his university years  – Heatherwick acknowledges – that he developed the ethos for which his is now celebrated: one of eschewing a hierarchy of materials, of tolerance for all forms of craftsmanship, of embracing the multivariate nature of design on large or small scales. He writes:

“At his time I became interested in the historic figure of the master builder, who combined the roles and skills of the builder, craftsman, engineer and designer, which mean that the generation of ideas was connected to the process of turning them into reality.”

Along with modernist founders, the bricklayer, the bread maker, the hedgelayer, the telescopic mirror maker and the thatcher all became Heatherwick’s muses. He notes, interestingly, that the division between the architect/engineer and the builder/craftsman was not all that wide until 1818, when the Institute of Civil Engineer was established, followed by The Royal Institute of British Architects in 1834. At this point paths diverged, leaving us with today’s version of the story: architects/engineer as elite conceptual thinker, builder/craftsman as skilled labourer. 

“Instead of rigidly dividing artistic thinking into separate crafts and professions such as sculpture, architecture, fashion, embroidery, metalwork and landscape, product and furniture design," he concluded, "I wanted to consider all design in three dimensions, not as multi-disciplinary design, but as a single discipline: three-dimensional design.”

In 1994 Heatherwick Studio opened for business. The book walks us through his projects chronologically, pausing to illustrate processes of conception and completion. Each project opens with a question, working backwards from the finished object to its driving impetus.  From the pragmatic (can a London bus be better and use 40 per cent less fuel?) to the philosophical (can an object be both abstract and representational?) to the downright near impossible (can a building be made out of a park?), it’s a clever format that lets the author explain his unique creative process. We see early exercises with chain link, plywood and old prams make way for larger experiments with furniture, commercial spaces and built environments. We see his love of dynamic curves, bold angles, natural forms and symmetry emerge, and grow more bold. Coursing throughout is a narrative of adaptability, of a desire to explore the possibility of a material rather than imposing a preconceived “design” or “shape”. 

The journey is peppered with fascinating anecdotes and lesser known projects. A polycarbonate pavilion – inspired by the pitched roof of a crumbling farm shed in Northumberland and built by the artist while still at university - is a particular illustration of a commitment to small scale innovations transposed onto larger buildings. It’s a beautiful gazebo with sepia-sheer walls and a sweeping, curvilinear structure. Other delights include upholstered furniture inspire by Shar-pei skin, a wooden waveform beachside café in Littlehampton, a post-industrial garden-come-power-station proposed for Teesside, and Bleigiessen (meaning “lead pouring” in German), a watery sculpture built from 150,000 glass beads, suspended in the atrium of the Welcome Trust.

The book also details the origins of the studio’s most iconic creation – the UK Pavilion at the 2010 World Expo in Shanghai. Their first “hairy building” was a 1999 proposed conversion of a WHSmith in Notting Hill, a quirky effort to transform a “tired-looking rectilinear shape”. The motif appeared again that year in a design for an outdoor "sitooterie", or Scottish gazebo, using 5,100 wood staves. They completed a permanent version of the project in 2000, this time using hollow aluminium staves, drawing thousands of points of light into the centre of the building.

In 2007 the studio won the chance to design the UK Pavilion at the World Expo, with one stipulation from the UK government: “When people vote for the best pavilion, make sure that you are in the top five!”. Heatherwick used the opportunity to hack away at outdated English stereotypes and instead reflect “the inventiveness and creativity of many people working in contemporary Britain”. They teamed a re-hashed - and infinitely more elegant - rendition of the “hairy building” with contributions from Kew Gardens’ Millenium Seed Bank. The Seed Cathedral was born. The building - with a façade of clear acrylic tubing, embedded with seeds, glowing by night, visited by over 8 million people - saw the UK take home the gold medal for Pavilion Design at the Expo’s conclusion.

The only sorrow felt while reading Making is that more of these building haven’t been actualised. The model for the glorious Doah Grand Hotel in Qatar sweeps up from the sea like a technocratic volcanic island, while an extraordinary spiralling seashell design proposed for the Great Hall at Windsor Castle (which burnt down in 1992) begs the thought, if only! The studio even pitched a concept for the 1996 Millennium Bridge. Beginning “tight and directional” at the corporate northern end and concluding “wider and more generous” on the shores of the artistic Southbank, the structure undulates open like a drop of ink in water, creating wide public berths. It is, somehow, an even more elegant vision than the Norman Foster/Anthony Caro design that won the space.

If any issue faces this book, then it’s the issue that faces nearly every art book (especially ones which tackle three dimensional subjects), and that is the issue of presentation. Can books, as a format, do justice to works of art designed to be seen in galleries, on screens or in public forums? This particular volume manages to sidestep what could have been a case of poetic injustice. By placing the emphasis on process, rather than result, we read the book for its insight rather than its high impact imagery. If you want to see a Heatherwick in the flesh, go sit along the 38 bus route. But read this book to get under his skin. 

Heatherwick Studio's UK Pavilion at the World Expo in Shanghai, 2010

Charlotte Simmonds is a writer and blogger living in London. She was formerly an editorial assistant at the New Statesman. You can follow her on Twitter @thesmallgalleon.

RICHARD KOEK/REDUX/EYEVINE
Show Hide image

Paul Auster's 4 3 2 1 is by turns rewarding and maddening – just like life

Auster’s epic new novel of immigration, politics and consciousness is rich but imperfect.

It’s a cliché, or a joke: the immigrant who arrives in the New World from the Old Country, to be greeted by an official who promptly renames him, mishearing the strange tongue that the arrival speaks. Paul Auster’s new novel begins: “According to family legend, Ferguson’s grandfather departed on foot from his native city of Minsk with one hundred rubles sewn into the lining of his jacket, travelled west to Hamburg through Warsaw and Berlin, and then booked passage on a ship called the Empress of China, which crossed the Atlantic in rough winter storms and sailed into New York Harbor on the first day of the twentieth century.”

Ferguson’s grandfather is called Isaac Reznikoff. Another Russian Jew advises him that it will be wiser to give his name as “Rockefeller” to the official. “You can’t go wrong with that.” But when it is his turn, “the weary immigrant blurted out in Yiddish, Ikh hob fargessen (I’ve forgotten)! And so it was that Isaac Reznikoff began his new life in America as Ichabod Ferguson.”

A joke or a fable: the way that so many stories begin in America, the stories of those who sailed past the Statue of Liberty and the words inscribed on its base, words to welcome the tired, the poor, those masses yearning to breathe free. And so Auster, in his first novel in seven years, presents the reader with an Everyman, Ferguson-who-is-not-Ferguson, not the man who stepped off the Empress of China but his grandson, Archibald Isaac Ferguson, the cranky protagonist and hero of this tale.

Ichabod begat Stanley and Stanley begat Archie, who was born, like his creator, in Newark, New Jersey, in 1947. This nearly 900-page epic is a Bildungsroman, though it would be more accurate to call it a Bildungs-Bildungs-Bildungs-Bildungsroman, because Archie’s story is told not once but four times. There are that many versions of the protagonist: in each version, his life takes a different turn, and so everything that follows is altered.

Auster is something of a prophet in exile in his own land. His brand of existentialist postmodernism – in which characters with the author’s name might appear, in which texts loop back on themselves to question the act of writing, in which the music of chance can be heard loud and clear – has sometimes found greater favour in Europe than it has in his native United States. For example, City of Glass, the 1985 meta-detective novel that forms part of The New York Trilogy, will be adapted for the stage here this year.

But City of Glass, like all of Auster’s previous books, is a slender novel. The New York Trilogy as a whole comes in at just over 300 pages. Where much of Auster’s work is elliptical, 4 3 2 1 can be overwhelming, but that is precisely the point. The author creates a vast portrait of the turbulent mid-20th century by giving his protagonist this series of lives. The book is divided into sections that clearly mark which Ferguson we are getting: 1.1, 1.2, 1.3 or 1.4.

Yet there is nothing supernatural about this journey lived and relived, as there was in Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life. The only magic involved is the magic of the novelist’s imagination, which allows both writer and reader to juggle realities as if they were balls in the air.

However, it is not as if one Ferguson is midshipman and another a circus performer, or one a loudmouth and another shy and retiring. The strength of this novel is that Ferguson remains himself while events shift around him, changing the course of his life. Ferguson’s father dies, or Ferguson’s father lives but divorces his mother, Rose. What happens then? Rose is a talented photographer; does she continue her work when Stanley prospers and they move to the suburbs, or does she take up golf and bridge? Ferguson is a good student, always a writer: does he go to Princeton or Columbia? What’s the difference between translating poetry in a Paris attic and working as a journalist for the Rochester Times-Union?

At its best, 4 3 2 1 is a full immersion in Ferguson’s consciousness, which, perhaps, is a consciousness not too far removed from Auster’s. His protagonist’s youth is wonderfully, vividly conveyed. Even if you don’t care about baseball, you’ll come to care about it because Ferguson does. The details of the young Ferguson’s life are carefully and lovingly created: the powder-blue Pontiac that his mother drives, the pot roast and cheese blintzes served at the Claremont Diner in Montclair, New Jersey – and  the floorboards in an old house that creak when two young lovers make their way between their separate rooms in the middle of the night. Auster builds a world of heartfelt, lived-in detail.

But this is a novel of politics, too. Ferguson is a young man during the tumult of the late 1960s, when dozens were killed and hundreds injured during riots in Newark in 1967; when students at Columbia occupied the campus in protest over the war in Vietnam; when young men such as Ferguson could be drafted to fight in that war.

It is in this last third of the novel that the book flags a little, as lists of events tumble on to the page: one paragraph contains the My Lai massacre, the killing of the Black Panther Fred Hampton and the Rolling Stones concert at Altamont. At times, history lessons threaten to overwhelm the narrative, and Ferguson’s story/stories lose the texture and particularity that have made them so compelling. And its ending is abrupt, a tying-up of loose ends that fragments on the final page.

But then lives – real lives – have strange, abrupt endings, too. This is a rich, imperfect book, often rewarding, occasionally maddening. Again, like life, or at least if we’re lucky.

4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster is published by Faber & Faber (880pp, £20)

Erica Wagner is a New Statesman contributing writer and a judge of the 2014 Man Booker Prize. A former literary editor of the Times, her books include Ariel's Gift: Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and the Story of “Birthday Letters” and Seizure.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era