Arne and I walked the Allmannajuvet site and we discussed the difficulty of building in a remote location, the unique range of local flora and the history of industry in the region. He steered the conversation towards Peter Zumthor and asked if I was familiar with his other work. I replied of course and that I was planning to visit Vardø. It was then that Arne shared that he had also overseen the construction of the Steilneset Memorial and that Peter would be in Vardø to give a talk the following weekend. I asked if the talk was open to the public.
He said, "No, but it can be open to you."
My heart exploded a little.
At that moment I began the micro-pilgrimage inlaid within this larger journey. I would travel to Vardø with the less imaginary hope of meeting the architect whose work and process I admire above all others.
Bodø, Norway
I disembarked from the ferry in Vardø at 3:30 in the morning. I stopped at the island’s only hotel to orient myself and then without even removing my panniers or camping gear I rode to the memorial. The procession to the memorial was punctuated with powerful landmarks that I had not expected. I have never seen them photographed or described. I will not share them here, because I could not bear to rob you of the experience, should you ever journey there yourself.
I approached the memorial and stared down the long, linear threshold so emblazoned in photographs of the building. I opened the stainless door with custom leather gaskets and entered the space. Only bare bulbs that hang in each window light the corridor: a nod to the Norwegian custom of placing lamps in windows to indicate that one is home and ready to accept guests. Each light is paired with the name and story of a victim of the seventeenth century witch trials in northern Norway. For perspective, the population of the entirety of the Finnmark region was about 3000 at the time. Over a hundred people were brought to trial for witchcraft. Ninety-one were found guilty and burned at the stake.
I walked slowly down the corridor.
I read 91 names.
I listened to the haunting echo of my footsteps.
I wept.
Synøve, Anders Nordmøring's wife. Accused of having helped raise the storm in which four men drowned. Sentenced to death in fire at the stake.
I wasn’t certain why my eyes welled with tears as I moved through Steilneset. It would be easy to credit the memorial itself, but I believe it is important to provide context for my state of mind during those moments. Up to this point I have not shared what it is like to travel by bicycle. It allows you to see more of less, but every kilometer is earned.
Eight days had passed since I had received the invitation in Sauda and I had travelled for those eight days to arrive in Vardø. As I had a schedule to keep and a country to cross I traveled by bicycle, train and ferry. To better illuminate my mindset I will provide a metric for my journey.
I biked 410 kilometers; I climbed 4643 meters.
I crossed the Dovrefjell mountain range. For the first time I made the call that it was too unsafe to ride. It was early morning and pitch black. I was biking on the E6 with long-haul truckers. They are professionals, but I knew that my presence was unexpected and they would not be watching out for a rouge cyclist. Being squished by a semi-truck is not how I intend to go out.
I rode the train for 1595 kilometers.
Due to the previous decision to stop biking until it was lighter out, I missed one train. Additionally, I barely caught a train at 5 o’clock in the morning. My fully loaded bike and myself half-stumbled then inched our way down two flights of stone stairs. I was bruised for the next three weeks.
I rode 3 local ferries.
I rode for 2 days, 13 hours on a coastal ferry and disembarked and explored four ports.
When I finally arrived Vardø I had not slept. The village is located at latitude 70°N. I did not know what awaited me; it was difficult to find a Norwegian who had traveled to Vardø. Traveling towards the unknown, I was stressed for my own safety and welfare.
Persfjorden between Vardø and Hamningberg
“Every day you have to abandon your past or accept it, and then if you cannot accept it you become a sculptor.”
I visited the Steilneset memorial four times. The first was alone after I departed the ferry. The second was with Arne and several farmers to discuss the ongoing maintenance of the site. The third was with Peter Zumthor and the ninety-five symposium participants and the fourth was alone again, prior to my departure from Vardø.
Several months ago, in Seattle, I had been asked in a conversation with a Professor to provide my definition of architecture. To my alarm, I had no working definition of my own. I could take the words of others, camouflage them in synonyms and shake them up like the best martini, but the words and sentiments were not my own. They rang empty. Worse than lacking my own definition was that it had not occurred to me to develop one of my own.
During my third visit to the memorial, we as a group moved en masse through the sequence of spaces. I overheard one architect ask Peter what type of fabric was used for the walls.
“No, but, specifically what type of fabric.”
In the middle of the memorial he asked him a ‘spec’ question. It was a mediocre question asked at the absolute wrong time. I was taken aback as the absurdity of it interrupted my own experience. But this eavesdropping was pivotal in the development of my own definition of architecture. There are many buildings that I would have also honed in on such a pragmatic inquiry, but not this one.
Why?
In 2012, artists were invited to Vardø to create installations on and within buildings.
Without the memorial designed by Louise Bourgeois and Peter Zumthor there would be no evidence of what occurred at the site of Steilesnet. They both tell the same story in a different manner. The long, linear Zumthor move gives a name to each person. It provides a sense of the scale of the atrocity. The fire of Louise Bourgeois’ response reiterates the horror of what transpired; it elicits a visceral response. It is the pairing of them that tells a more complete story.
The buildings take the cultural undercurrent, embed in the landscape, and make it legible.
Photo credit: Norwegian street artist Pøblo
I returned to the memorial a final time before leaving Vardø. I felt an obligation to the victims to read each of their stories. I approached the memorial and again I stared down the long, linear threshold so emblazoned in photographs of the building. I opened the stainless door with custom leather gaskets and entered the space.
I read 91 names.
I read 91 lists of accusations.
I read 91 death sentences.
I wept again.
The ritualistic tears repeated; it was with this that I had finally drafted a working definition of architecture for myself.
Architecture is a building that causes an architect to stop thinking like an Architect.
The detective in me that is always examining how something is detailed and achieved was silenced. I was not trying to decipher how it was built. I just experienced the materials, the sounds, the light, the sequence of spaces and the imbued narrative. I appreciated the aspects that I consider make architecture, without trying to look behind the curtain.
I allowed it to be theater.
biking in solitude from Vardø to Vadsø, Norway
As I rode away from Vardø I reflected upon the happenings of the previous days. Peter, Arne and I had lunched prior to the arrival of the other symposium participants. I sat across from my professional idol in a café. I made him laugh. When Peter Zumthor laughs he laughs with his entire body. His feet leave the ground; it is quite charming. We three walked back to the hotel together and I witnessed another of his admirable traits. He is remarkably observant and sees nuanced patterns would be easy to miss. Peter was scheduled to give an introduction prior to the group visit to the memorial. He asked Arne and myself what we would like to hear him talk about. When I witnessed him speak publicly and give the introduction that 95 sets of ears had traveled to hear: I saw the magic that is the man, the myth, the legend.
I traversed a rainy wind-swept climb as I departed Vardø. At the peak I saw my first reindeer; an all male herd, antlers silhouetted against the unsettled sky. Wind and rain conspiring against me, I couldn't help but smile as I repeated Arne’s final words to me.
“Peter enjoyed talking with you. He will remember you.”