Ihave written, not only for unfortunate Northerners who love the South, but also for those who love the North passionately, so that hey might know the essence that is foreign and angerous to their art. Or do we all need light in place of lighting…must we always turn South?’
In these closing sentences of his classic study of early
Renaissance art, The Quattro Cento, Adrian Stokes
captures the great divide between the architectures of
north and south, which has less to do with differences
of material or even culture, and everything to do with
climate, above all to the differing qualities of natural light.
No 20th-century architect, arguably, understood this
better than Jørn Utzon. Born in Denmark, he was
destined to build his masterpiece – Sydney Opera House
– and an exquisite house for himself under southern
light, as well as a church in his home country. Together
these buildings offer an object lesson in how to respond
to the contrasting light of north and south.
The house was built as a result of moving his office to
Sydney, where he intended to settle permanently. Long
before Majorca was overwhelmed by tourists, Utzon and
his family enjoyed holidaying on the island and decided
to build a holiday home there. He found a site in the
then remote south-east corner, perched on a 20m-high
cliff just east of Porto Petro looking south across the
Mediterranean – the ‘piazza of ancient life’ as Stokes
called it. As so often in his work, Utzon found the initial
inspiration for the design in nature: clambering down
the cliff he discovered a shallow cave, prototype of the
megaron, that primordial southern dwelling beloved of
his hero, Le Corbusier.
Named Can Lis in honour of his wife, the house was
built with readily available materials, the modern
vernacular of the island. Utzon told me that he thought
of the fragmented plan as being derived from an
‘ideal’ rectangle that settled on the site and broke up
in response to the horizon and rocky terrain. Framed
by a washing court to the east and the master bedroom
to the west it is like a tiny village, with shaded patios, a
stoa-like courtyard fronting dining room and kitchen, a
double-height living room, and a pair of bedrooms for
family and friends.
The living room is entered from the smallest of the
patios via a rudimentary colonnade of square piers, like a
sketch for a Greek temple. The room itself is dimly lit and
you are drawn towards a series of large openings set in
exaggeratedly deep reveals. Made by projecting thin walls,
they recall military embrasures but are designed not to
project missiles out but to capture and draw light and
views of sea and sky in. The timber frames for the glazing
are placed out of sight on the face of the walls, fulfilling
Louis Kahn’s dream of ‘openings without frames’. ▼
