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| In addition to natural hazard vulnerability, the lack of access to basic infrastructure and financial services imposes restricted production and consumption conditions for this population, as well as limits technological innovations that for some privileged experts, would be promising for reducing our environmental degradation [2]. Hence, when thinking along the United Nation’s promise of “leaving no one behind” for a sustainable future, one must think – What is really possible in marginalized, peripheral, poor contexts?
In my diverse experiences in social projects in Brazil, I came to face situations where from the lack of options, these populations have been actively resisting their existence through informal and creative ways of production, consumption and education. Ways that have been excluded from the respect of government officials and policymakers, but that we can learn from to ressignify our modus operandis that have overpassed the bearable impact on the planet.
I bring to the discussion the practice of mutirão, a word with indigenous roots from Tupi-Guarani mutyrõ (within many other variations), freely translated to English as “common work”. The practice, with debated origin [3], has been present in diverse cultural contexts and geographical regions, suggesting a common intrinsic human trace of solidarity [3], but that aggregates different layers of political and social challenges. Deteriorated by the growing individualization of work configuration, some practices of mutual help survive their remote past’s heritage [3], yet incorporating new complexities of contemporary urban configuration.
In Brazilian cities, despite the legal effort to make cities accessible [4], these challenges include housing deficit, lack of basic services such as sanitation and electricity, and restricted land access [5]. In the overall neglect of this urban ill by some government officials, it creates a condition that obliges people to find informal ways of occupying the city – usually in configurations such as favelas, and ocupações. In these scenarios of poor infrastructure assistance, climate vulnerability is enhanced, being common phenomena of landslides, extreme rainfall and floods that cause significant dwelling damage and human loss. Yet invisibilized by officials, the segregated people find political and social strength by unification of their voices, knowledge and workforce abilities in a territory that is not assisted by formal governance. They collectively construct housing, infrastructure, and collective spaces in labor that are generally non-remunerated, non-hierarchical, and do not aim for a financial profit. Therefore, the mutirão incorporates a political view of anti-hegemonic activity that is contrary to capitalist work relations [6].
To bring this into practical terms, I share a practice of an informal occupation located in Santa Maria, a city in south of Brazil, that is in a current legislative process for the State to formally allow 53 families to live where they have been for the past seven years – “Vila Resistência” – in direct translation – “Villa of Resistance”. The name coherently suggests their will of power, as 15 of the pioneer families came from a situation of eviction from a past land they occupied, and in the current site, they have already been through at least three direct threats of removal [7]. The disputatious situation introduces other various conflicts these organizations encounter, and their need to urgently resist to be able to live.
In addition to natural hazard vulnerability, the lack of access to basic infrastructure and financial services imposes restricted production and consumption conditions for this population, as well as limits technological innovations that for some privileged experts, would be promising for reducing our environmental degradation [2]. Hence, when thinking along the United Nation’s promise of “leaving no one behind” for a sustainable future, one must think – What is really possible in marginalized, peripheral, poor contexts?In my diverse experiences in social projects in Brazil, I came to face situations where from the lack of options, these populations have been actively resisting their existence through informal and creative ways of production, consumption and education. Ways that have been excluded from the respect of government officials and policymakers, but that we can learn from to ressignify our modus operandis that have overpassed the bearable impact on the planet.
I bring to the discussion the practice of mutirão, a word with indigenous roots from Tupi-Guarani mutyrõ (within many other variations), freely translated to English as “common work”. The practice, with debated origin [3], has been present in diverse cultural contexts and geographical regions, suggesting a common intrinsic human trace of solidarity [3], but that aggregates different layers of political and social challenges. Deteriorated by the growing individualization of work configuration, some practices of mutual help survive their remote past’s heritage [3], yet incorporating new complexities of contemporary urban configuration.
In Brazilian cities, despite the legal effort to make cities accessible [4], these challenges include housing deficit, lack of basic services such as sanitation and electricity, and restricted land access [5]. In the overall neglect of this urban ill by some government officials, it creates a condition that obliges people to find informal ways of occupying the city – usually in configurations such as favelas, and ocupações. In these scenarios of poor infrastructure assistance, climate vulnerability is enhanced, being common phenomena of landslides, extreme rainfall and floods that cause significant dwelling damage and human loss. Yet invisibilized by officials, the segregated people find political and social strength by unification of their voices, knowledge and workforce abilities in a territory that is not assisted by formal governance. They collectively construct housing, infrastructure, and collective spaces in labor that are generally non-remunerated, non-hierarchical, and do not aim for a financial profit. Therefore, the mutirão incorporates a political view of anti-hegemonic activity that is contrary to capitalist work relations [6].
To bring this into practical terms, I share a practice of an informal occupation located in Santa Maria, a city in south of Brazil, that is in a current legislative process for the State to formally allow 53 families to live where they have been for the past seven years – “Vila Resistência” – in direct translation – “Villa of Resistance”. The name coherently suggests their will of power, as 15 of the pioneer families came from a situation of eviction from a past land they occupied, and in the current site, they have already been through at least three direct threats of removal [7]. The disputatious situation introduces other various conflicts these organizations encounter, and their need to urgently resist to be able to live.
In addition to natural hazard vulnerability, the lack of access to basic infrastructure and financial services imposes restricted production and consumption conditions for this population, as well as limits technological innovations that for some privileged experts, would be promising for reducing our environmental degradation [2]. Hence, when thinking along the United Nation’s promise of “leaving no one behind” for a sustainable future, one must think – What is really possible in marginalized, peripheral, poor contexts?
In my diverse experiences in social projects in Brazil, I came to face situations where from the lack of options, these populations have been actively resisting their existence through informal and creative ways of production, consumption and education. Ways that have been excluded from the respect of government officials and policymakers, but that we can learn from to ressignify our modus operandis that have overpassed the bearable impact on the planet.
I bring to the discussion the practice of mutirão, a word with indigenous roots from Tupi-Guarani mutyrõ (within many other variations), freely translated to English as “common work”. The practice, with debated origin [3], has been present in diverse cultural contexts and geographical regions, suggesting a common intrinsic human trace of solidarity [3], but that aggregates different layers of political and social challenges. Deteriorated by the growing individualization of work configuration, some practices of mutual help survive their remote past’s heritage [3], yet incorporating new complexities of contemporary urban configuration.
In Brazilian cities, despite the legal effort to make cities accessible [4], these challenges include housing deficit, lack of basic services such as sanitation and electricity, and restricted land access [5]. In the overall neglect of this urban ill by some government officials, it creates a condition that obliges people to find informal ways of occupying the city – usually in configurations such as favelas, and ocupações. In these scenarios of poor infrastructure assistance, climate vulnerability is enhanced, being common phenomena of landslides, extreme rainfall and floods that cause significant dwelling damage and human loss. Yet invisibilized by officials, the segregated people find political and social strength by unification of their voices, knowledge and workforce abilities in a territory that is not assisted by formal governance. They collectively construct housing, infrastructure, and collective spaces in labor that are generally non-remunerated, non-hierarchical, and do not aim for a financial profit. Therefore, the mutirão incorporates a political view of anti-hegemonic activity that is contrary to capitalist work relations [6].
To bring this into practical terms, I share a practice of an informal occupation located in Santa Maria, a city in south of Brazil, that is in a current legislative process for the State to formally allow 53 families to live where they have been for the past seven years – “Vila Resistência” – in direct translation – “Villa of Resistance”. The name coherently suggests their will of power, as 15 of the pioneer families came from a situation of eviction from a past land they occupied, and in the current site, they have already been through at least three direct threats of removal [7]. The disputatious situation introduces other various conflicts these organizations encounter, and their need to urgently resist to be able to live.
It is today widely accepted that architects need to change their professional habits if they are to remain relevant actors in an uncertain future marked by ecological and humanitarian crises. At educational institutions, our time is therefore one for reviewing and transforming the pedagogical habits that form the profession. The Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) in Trondheim is one of many universities where this challenge is on the agenda, and the doctoral thesis Cogenerating Spaces of Learning: The Aesthetic Experience of Materiality and Its Transformative Potential within Architectural Education, defended at NTNU in 2021 (the thesis may be read in its entirety here), is one response to how states of uncertainty can become possibilities for renewal.[1] What if, the thesis asks, a key to coping with change is to simply let architecture students talk about what they do?
By giving an overview of the history of architectural education, Cogenerating Spaces of Learning shows that there is a general need at architecture schools for working more consciously with pedagogy. There is, to put it bluntly, a need for understanding design processes as learning processes. Based on this perspective, the thesis points to the need for safe spaces for conversations as well as the need for experiments on forms of learning that allow for the experiential. Because by arranging such spaces and experiments, architecture schools may support lasting changes of pedagogical and professional habits.
Indoor and outdoor interventions designed and built by the students for the festival. Photo by Johanna Gullberg
The thesis triangulates perspectives on spatiality and learning from architecture, pedagogy and theatre. At its core is an action research case study of the learning processes of fourteen architecture students who followed the Master course Making is Thinking, given at NTNU in Trondheim during the spring semester 2016.[2] During the semester students worked both in the FormLAB, an on-campus learning lab, and in the theatre company Cirka Teater's facilities at Nyhavna, a harbour area next to the city centre. The course ended in the first version of the urban festival Hendelser på Nyhavna (Events at Nyhavna), nowadays an established concept that many feel ownership of. The festival was initiated by Cirka Teater and Making is Thinking as a reaction to the political decision on turning Nyhavna into an urban residential area. The refusal to tacitly accept the inevitable force of gentrification led to that cultural producers at Nyhavna opened their doors for a day, thereby letting many experience creative activities that usually remain in the hidden. An effect of "turning Nyhavna inside out" in this festive way, was in fact that arts and culture got recognised as a parameter in the official plans for the area. This parameter has since then been present in architectural competitions, participatory workshops and municipal initiatives regarding the future of Nyhavna.
In the thesis, the notion of transformation is seen through the lense of the educator rather than that of the urban planner – the conversion of Nyhavna forms a background to the study of learning processes in the Making is Thinking milieu. Wherever Making is Thinking educators work, they aim at enabling transformative learning experiences and critical conversations about the professional habits of architects, and their main tactic for doing so is to set up exercises that include hands-on making. In 2016, the exercises were influenced by the site and, more importantly, by the collaboration with the theatre company.[3] For instance, students tested out performative mapping techniques and agreed on being guided by fictive characters as they built the scenography for a festival play. The thesis shows that the exercises brought out embodied, affective and social dimensions of architecture. That these experiential dimensions were unfamiliar to the students, and therefore both potentially transformative and risky or strange, is a major theme in the thesis.
The Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) in Trondheim is one of many universities where this challenge is on the agenda, and the doctoral thesis Cogenerating Spaces of Learning: The Aesthetic Experience of Materiality and Its Transformative Potential within Architectural Education, defended at NTNU in 2021 (the thesis may be read in its entirety here), is one response to how states of uncertainty can become possibilities for renewal.[1] What if, the thesis asks, a key to coping with change is to simply let architecture students talk about what they do?
By giving an overview of the history of architectural education, Cogenerating Spaces of Learning shows that there is a general need at architecture schools for working more consciously with pedagogy. There is, to put it bluntly, a need for understanding design processes as learning processes. Based on this perspective, the thesis points to the need for safe spaces for conversations as well as the need for experiments on forms of learning that allow for the experiential. Because by arranging such spaces and experiments, architecture schools may support lasting changes of pedagogical and professional habits.
Indoor and outdoor interventions designed and built by the students for the festival. Photo by Johanna Gullberg
learning
learninglearning
The thesis triangulates perspectives on spatiality and learning from architecture, pedagogy and theatre. At its core is an action research case study of the learning processes of fourteen architecture students who followed the Master course Making is Thinking, given at NTNU in Trondheim during the spring semester 2016.[2] During the semester students worked both in the FormLAB, an on-campus learning lab, and in the theatre company Cirka Teater's facilities at Nyhavna, a harbour area next to the city centre. The course ended in the first version of the urban festival Hendelser på Nyhavna (Events at Nyhavna), nowadays an established concept that many feel ownership of. The festival was initiated by Cirka Teater and Making is Thinking as a reaction to the political decision on turning Nyhavna into an urban residential area. The refusal to tacitly accept the inevitable force of gentrification led to that cultural producers at Nyhavna opened their doors for a day, thereby letting many experience creative activities that usually remain in the hidden. An effect of "turning Nyhavna inside out" in this festive way, was in fact that arts and culture got recognised as a parameter in the official plans for the area. This parameter has since then been present in architectural competitions, participatory workshops and municipal initiatives regarding the future of Nyhavna.
In the thesis, the notion of transformation is seen through the lense of the educator rather than that of the urban planner – the conversion of Nyhavna forms a background to the study of learning processes in the Making is Thinking milieu. Wherever Making is Thinking educators work, they aim at enabling transformative learning experiences and critical conversations about the professional habits of architects, and their main tactic for doing so is to set up exercises that include hands-on making. In 2016, the exercises were influenced by the site and, more importantly, by the collaboration with the theatre company.[3] For instance, students tested out performative mapping techniques and agreed on being guided by fictive characters as they built the scenography for a festival play. The thesis shows that the exercises brought out embodied, affective and social dimensions of architecture. That these experiential dimensions were unfamiliar to the students, and therefore both potentially transformative and risky or strange, is a major theme in the thesis.
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