Sigurd Lewerentz: Church Of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66
This is a repository copy of Sigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66 .White Rose Research Online URL for this lundell Jones, P. (2002) Sigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66. arq:Architectural Research Quarterly, 6 (2). pp. 159-173. ISSN ReuseUnless indicated otherwise, fulltext items are protected by copyright with all rights reserved. The copyrightexception in section 29 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 allows the making of a single copysolely for the purpose of non-commercial research or private study within the limits of fair dealing. Thepublisher or other rights-holder may allow further reproduction and re-use of this version - refer to the WhiteRose Research Online record for this item. Where records identify the publisher as the copyright holder,users can verify any specific terms of use on the publisher’s website.TakedownIf you consider content in White Rose Research Online to be in breach of UK law, please notify us byemailing eprints@whiterose.ac.uk including the URL of the record and the reason for the withdrawal terose.ac.uk/
historyThis modest building questions basic assumptions about processesand finishes, about the nature of brickwork and the detailing ofwindow frames – and provides a powerful space for worship.Sigurd Lewerentz:Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66Peter Blundell Jonesthrown into question. It produced a new andunexpected architectural vocabulary, but it can alsobe read as a commentary on the significance ofexpressed construction, on deriving a building’sidentity from its tectonic nature. St Peter’s wasLewerentz’s last major work, begun when he was 78years old, and carried through with greatfastidiousness and constant site-supervision. It is asextreme a statement in its different way as Mies’sgallery described in the last chapter. The twobuildings were conceived and built at more or lessthe same time, and the two architects were almostprecise contemporaries, Mies born in 1886 andLewerentz in 1885. Arguably, they were equallyobsessive in their pursuit of materials and detailing,and equally indebted to the Classical Tradition, butLewerentz’s work moved in quite a different directionfrom Mies’s. From the beginning of his career, he wasinterested in irregularity and conflicting ordersrather that in the calm finality sought by Mies. Andfar from purifying a building’s appearance byerasing every mark left by the hand, Lewerentz askedThe wall is rough brick, very rough with unusuallywide joints. The pointing is not raked or trowelled asusual but ‘bagged off’, crudely wiped with an oldsack, causing the bricks to be smeared. From time totime this texture is relieved by another in acutecontrast: a pure semi-reflective plane of glass with aperfect silver edge, evidently applied to the outside ofthe wall [1a]. Its delicate form is held in position bythe crudest means: a bracket in each corner securedwith two screws [1b]. This window in St Peter’s ChurchKlippan, by Sigurd Lewerentz, is a favourite witharchitects, for once seen it is never forgotten; but it isonly imitated by the brave. First a brick hole isformed, a pure rectangular void surrounded by apure brick edge. A thick layer of mastic is thenapplied to the outside face of the hole, and a sealeddouble-glazing unit a few centimetres larger ispressed into place, the brackets screwed on to retainit. From inside there seems hardly a window at all,for the glass remains invisible and frameless, simplya brick hole in a thick brick wall. On the outside theprecision and fragility of the glass contrastpoignantly with the brutality of the brickwork. It isof course a fixed window, ventilation being suppliedby other means.This arresting detail is typical of numerousinstances at St Peter’s when assumptions aboutbuilding methods and ‘good practice’ are apparently1 Once seen, neverforgotten andimitated only by thebrave. Part of anunexpectedarchitectural1avocabularya Mirror-likewindows of parishrooms at outersouth-east cornerb Fixing detailshowing brick hole,mastic bed andmetal bracket.Note the ‘baggedoff’ brickworkpointing1bhistory arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 2002159
160arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 2002history2 Classical vigour.Lewerentz’s earlymasterpiece: Chapelof the Resurrection,Enskede Cemetery,Stockholm, 1926,west side seenfrom the sunkengarden3 Classicism meets theNordic farmhousea Classicism inpainted woodb Rough farmsteadin logs andgranite4 A synthesis betweenopposite poles:Stockholm PatentOffice by RagnarÖstberga Main frontb Corner detail: theintended render wasnever applied5 The subtleinteraction of givenand imposed orders:Chapel of theResurrectiona The portico standsat the end of thelongest straight routein the cemeteryb Plan showing the2 shift between thechapel (aligned withthe sunken westgarden – see 2) andthe portico (alignedwith its approachroute)2Peter Blundell JonesSigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–663a4a3b4b
history arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 20025a5bhis workers to refrain from tidying up, making themarks of the process more obvious. In completecontrast with Mies, for example, he had them leavethe welded and soldered joints with irregularpimples of melted metal protruding. At times therawness is shocking, a dirty architecture as opposedto Mies’s obsessively clean one. And if, like Mies,Lewerentz still held to a concern for geometry andproportion visible in the completely orthogonalplan with its square within a square and carefullymodulated dimensions, the three-dimensionalcomposition of St Peter’s is untidy, asymmetrical,contextual, contingent; its irregularities are notrepressed but relished. Despite the Classical rigour ofan early masterpiece like his Chapel of theResurrection of 1926 [2], Lewerentz seems in his latework to have returned increasingly to the NationalRomanticism of his youth, reworking it in an entirelynew form.The Scandinavian backgroundThat this symphony of the raw and the rough shouldhave occurred in Scandinavia is no accident. Citieswere small, industrialization late, and in the extremenorthern climate the powers of nature were moredirectly felt. Classicism [3a], romantically linked withthe distant Mediterranean sun, was opposed by theraw Nordic farmhouse of rough-hewn logs set ongranite boulders [3b], celebrated at the time ofLewerentz’s architectural education by the NationalRomantic movement, for he and Asplund weretaught by two of its Swedish leaders, Ragnar Östbergand Carl Westman.1 For both these architects,however, the Classical example was also ever-presentand they struggled to achieve a synthesis betweenthese opposite poles. So while Östberg’s masterpieceStockholm City Hall drew on the irregular VenetianGothic of the Doge’s Palace, his Stockholm patentoffice boasted a symmetrical and Classical front [4a].Even so, the patent office has the rawest and roughestbrickwork, as if waiting for a coat of render that wasnever applied [4b].National Romanticism, which exploded acrossEurope in the 1890s from Finland to Hungary, was acomplex phenomenon. The celebration of localculture and identity that seems to lie at its heart wasalready artificial and self-conscious, performed onan international stage.2 Its ubiquitous half-roundarches, for example, derive from H. H. Richardson inthe United States, learned through publications.Even the most apparently local manifestations werepart of this larger debate: the quintessentiallyCatalan Gaudí is unthinkable without the exampleof Viollet-le-Duc, just as the Glaswegian Mackintoshdepends on Pugin and the Arts and Crafts Movement.Even the intense regionalist Theodor Fischer, forwhom Lewerentz briefly worked on a visit toGermany around 1910, was not tied to one place. Hethought respecting a context meant learning thelocal architectural language, and he builtcontrasting Bavarian, Swabian and Tyroleanbuildings not from the viewpoint of the artless localbut as visiting professor. What he relished in the task– quite legitimately – was the discovery of anddialogue with the place, the participation in geniusloci.3Behind the pan-European National Romanticmovement the Gothic was a powerful inspiration –the Gothic, that is, as understood through the simplepolemic of Pugin, the sophisticated aesthetic stanceof Ruskin and the scholarly analysis of Viollet.4 It wasrelished for its honest and direct use of materials,but also for its complex, irregular and articulatedforms. Understandably, it was taken as a refreshmentfor the architectural debate in counterpoint tovarious forms of tired academic Classicism. It couldbe seen as a design philosophy of responsiveness tolocal need as opposed to the imposition of an idealorder, and of returning to naked building as opposedto the grafting on of borrowed iconographies likeicing on a cake. The adoption of local vernacularbuilding traditions as manifestations of a ‘Gothic’spirit makes sense for both of these oppositions,however nonsensical it may seem in relation toGothic as a style.5 The Classical heritage within theGothic could, of course, be ignored.Lewerentz and Erik Gunnar Asplund were bothstudents of the breakaway Klara School. Their careersdeveloped in parallel and they worked together for18 years on their mutual masterpiece, EnskedeCemetery in southern Stockholm.6 Having absorbedthe lessons of National Romanticism they bothpassed through an intensely Neo-Classical period inthe late teens and 1920s, when they not only appliedSigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66Peter Blundell Jones161
162arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 2002history6aClassical decorative forms but could adopt the mostformal of schematic plans and build in ways thatwere not just constructionally deceptive butpositively scenographic.7 The faked facade of highculture with its references to Greece and Romeremained as much a possibility as the primitive hutor log-cabin, and they could switch from oneprecedent to the other even within a single project.8This meant that expressing construction – to isolateone issue – was not so much a rule as a perpetualoption, always involving the question of what toexpress and how. For both architects the advent ofwhite Modernism around 1930 was extremely shortlived, for almost immediately questions ofconstructional expression re-emerged. For Asplund,this meant that by the late ’30s he was againpolarizing his work between a sophisticated and aprimitive vocabulary.9 For Lewerentz, the soulsearching led to an immersion in technical detailrivalled among Modernists only by Jean Prouvé, forhe founded a firm called Idesta which producedhigh-quality door and window frames and alliedironmongery (Ahlin 1987: 138–141).Necessary irregularitiesJust as the question of how to express or repress thesubstance of the building remained in debatethroughout the two architects’ careers, so theirNational Romantic background also gave them aspecial interest in the specifics of sites and thehandling of irregularities. They won the competitionfor the Enskede Cemetery mainly for the sensitivehandling of the forest site, and although theirdevelopment plan was for a while much moreformal, the final triumph lies in the subtleinteraction of given and imposed orders (Constant1994: 29–47). Lewerentz’s Chapel of the Resurrection,Peter Blundell JonesSigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66added to the cemetery in 1926, is his most severelyformal Classical building, yet its asymmetry is themaking of it. The noble portico [5a], set on the axis ofthe Way of Seven Wells, the longest straight route onthe site, is detached from the chapel, whoseorientation follows the axis of the sunken westgarden. The two axes are not normal but 2 out, andrather than concealing this fact like most architects,Lewerentz played it up through the skeweddisjunction of the two buildings [5b]. This gesturemakes all the difference, for it shows that the partsare separate entities, their relationship not selfcontained but given by the place. This would be quitealien to Mies, incomprehensible even. Parallelexamples are legion in Lewerentz’s work, and foundalso in Asplund’s.Lewerentz and Asplund developed the cemeteryuntil 1933, taking turns to build its various parts.Together they developed preparatory designs for themain crematorium, but after some difficulties withthe clients, Asplund was asked to continue alone,and Lewerentz broke off all contact until Asplund’searly death in 1940. Lewerentz lived on: discouragedby this and other disappointments he built little andbecame something of a recluse, but he ran his firm.An elaborate and ingenious restoration programmefor Uppsala Cathedral was not taken up (Ahlin 1987:147–148). He faded into obscurity as far as theprofession was concerned, only to re-emerge quitesuddenly with a handful of remarkable late works,20 years after the death of his rival. St Peter’s is thebest of these. Its architectural language was adevelopment of that employed at the slightly earlierchurch of St Mark at Skarpnäck near Stockholmwhich also had rough brickwork, vaults, and muchexpressed construction. At Klippan, however, thelanguage is more refined and even more austere.
history arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 20029891011121283713615246b6c6dThe church and its settingKlippan is a small town on the west side of Sweden.St Peter’s stands just east of the town centre, betweena pair of converging roads which lead out towardssuburbs. Beyond is a park, and the site initiallysuggested for the building was nearer the middle ofit, further to the east. However Lewerentz chose toanchor his church against the northern road fromwhich it is approached, turning the area to the west –i.e. between it and the road junction, and facing thetown – into a garden [6a]. This garden is the principal6 St Peter’s, Klippan,1963a Site plan (originaldrawing)b Floor plan1 Church2 Font3 Altar4 Vestibule andwedding chapel5 Entrance passage6 Organist7 Sacristy8 Offices9 Priest10 Archive11 Council room12 Confirmation room13 Meeting roomc West-east sectionthrough churchd North-southsection throughsacristy, church andmeeting roomSigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66Peter Blundell Jones163
164arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 2002history78outdoor room of the complex, celebrating the westand main facade of the church [7], that with thelargest and most ceremonial doors, from whichcouples emerge together for the first time aftermarriage. The space boasts the only piece of addedsculpture, and also a large brick-lined pool – a stillNordic lake for reflection and reflectiveness, ratherthan the cooling fountain of the south.Peter Blundell JonesSigurd Lewerentz: Church of St Peter, Klippan, 1963–66The church is correctly orientated, so the altarstands opposite the west doors [6a–d]. It is square inshape, suggesting a more intimate ritual in thetradition of circonstantes (standing in a circle) [8] inplace of the more usual linear progression. Thismarks an attempt to return to origins: to the earlyChristianity of secret meetings in the catacombs.10This was the religious equivalent of the search for
history arq . vol 6 . no 2 . 2002element – the expressed fireplace and chimney ofthe meeting room, an original ‘foyer’.11 Theorganization of the complex is clearly hierarchical,focusing on the church as centre. The profaneelements are separated from it by the internalstreet, while it is touched to north by the semi-holyelements of sacristy and vestibule, the latter alsoserving as a wedding chapel.97 The town or westside of the churchfaces the gardenwith its reflectingpool8 Church interior seenfrom entry. Squarerather than linear,the plan sets thecongregation in acluster facing thealtar9 The church entranceis through a smallchapel off an alleywayon the north side.Worshippers enter oneby one. After theservice they leavetogether through thewest doors(see 14b)the essential and the primitive that runs sopoignantly through the architecture. The church isentered via a side chapel off a tiny alleyway to thenorth [9], deliberately intimate and informal, forpeople arrive for religious observance one by one: itis only at the end of the service that, united by theexperience, they process out together through thewest doors. The bells are placed to one side of thisalleyway above the sacristy, so one is summoned bytheir music directly to the point of entry.Behind the church to south and east is a lower Lshaped block of parish offices and meeting rooms,placed to make a larger square in plan with thechurch, set on the same diagonal. This element isseparated from the church by another outdoorroom, a narrow street-like space onto which doors ofthe various facilities open, and which is closed atnight by iron gates [10a]. It appears at first sight to beof constant width, but the minor branch south ofthe church is slightly narrower [10b]. At the northend, where it gives onto the main road, the entry ispartly screened by a skewed free-standing wall. Theonly other departure from the right-angle in plan isthe stage of the meeting room. The facades facing thepark to south [11a] and east [11b] are the mostsubdued and informal, but they also boast thelargest windows – belonging to the cornerconfirmation rooms; and also the most domesticSacredness of vaultsVaults have long been associated with religiousarchitecture. They are essential not only to theGothic, but also to Romanesque and Byzantinebuilding, and to mosques. They make a skyscape (wealso speak of ‘the heavenly vault’), they confer someorder and rhythm on the plan, and theydemonstrate inspiringly how the hardest andheaviest materials are persuaded to defy gravity.Their use in the second half of the twentieth centuryis unusual and could seem archaic, were they notreinterpreted in a wholly modern manner.Lewerentz uses brick vaults, but what he does withthem is only possible with the strength of iron, forthey are laid between rolled steel joists. They areexpressed externally by following their form directlywith a copper skin, unlike the secondary roof ofGothic churches – another instance of the desire toreturn to essentials. The church vaulting runs on theaxis of the altar [12], so it is seen externally on themost important west and east ends. It rises towardsthe centre, both to provide a spatial climax and todrain the rainwater to the sides, while it is liftedabove the supporting structure by a series ofminimal steel posts . This gives the impression thatthe vaults are floating above, rather than loadingonto, the supporting structure. They are in fact heldup on a pair of great transverse beams carried by across-shaped central column. That this element has amore than structural, utilitarian, profane role, isunderlined by it being asymmetrical whenstructural logic would demand symmetry. Theshorter arm is found, as one might expect, in thedirection of the altar. Although clearly symbolic, itremains T-shaped, without the upper arm of a truecross: for its meaning is evident enough, and mustnot be overstressed. The steelwork is not painted butleft raw and rusty, ageing, and therefore a symbol ofsuffering, but in a way more felt than analyzed.12 Thewelded joints, as throughout the building, are leftunground, so the welder’s work appears in its nakedsimplicity.This kind of vault was first tried at St Mark’sSkarpnäck (1960), where vaults were used for all partsof the complex. At St Peter’s they occur morehierarchically: they serve only for the church, theside chapel, and the council chamber in the cornerof the L-shaped block. Furthermore, only the churchvaults are left visible externally, for the other parts ofthe complex have more profane low-pitched coppercovered timber roofs. And while the roof edges ofvaults are finished as flush as possible [13a], theprofane buildings have overhanging eaves whichproject [13b], displaying their timber structure andthe way it is strapped down to the walls. Thes
perfect silver edge, evidently applied to the outside of the wall [1a]. Its delicate form is held in position by the crudest means: a bracket in each corner secured with two screws [1b]. This window in St Peter’s Church Klippan, by Sigurd Lewerentz, is a favourite with architects, for onc
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