How should we live? What is space? How minimal can a building or room be? These are some of the questions architectural designer John Pawson brings up in his book The Minimal Home, and which come up in his commissions. The designer behind the Calvin Klein Collections Store in Manhattan, London’s Design Museum, and a number of monasteries, he is minimalism’s ambassador if there ever was one. A Pawson building tends to be stripped down to its essence and spacious. Even his apartments are cavernous; work is both demanding and light.
Such simplicity and directness of purpose didn’t happen overnight. Pawson, raised in Yorkshire, and who worked formatively under Shiro Kuramata, the generationally important Japanese designer, and founding member of Memphis Group, entered the Architectural Association School of Architecture in his late 20s already converted to minimalism, then opened his practice in 1981. At the time, maximalism was popular; but Pawson’s projects weathered the trend, and created a new language for minimalism. The Calvin store, Pawson’s first commission of scale, veered retail design into the radically minimal. The 30-foot high windows—suggested in jest to Klein by Pawson—that didn’t display any jeans or clothing made waves in the industry; so did the phenomenon of people coming in just to experience the store. The same reverent, spare and straight aesthetic would appear in churches and monasteries his firm later designed. 40 years in, it makes for a broad body of work, that is minimalist on the surface with a maximum of effort below. Work that is easy to look at, but hard to create.
We spoke to Pawson from his London office about his new book, sacred spaces, Calvin Klein, and the difference between designing buildings and clothes.
You worked with Shiro Kuramata at a young age and discovered Domus and Mies van der Rohe as a youth. How'd architecture show up for you so early?
For Mies, I must have been around mid teenage years. Kurumata I found at about 18. I left school at 17, traveled the world for a year or two. I was in Newcastle, and the gallery there had Domus. There was also a furniture magazine called Mobilia, which had lots of things I liked. I devoured those. When you spend time reading, all your experience comes from photographs or magazines. I found Kuramata in Domus in 1968 and thought this is a living architect who does work. It was Mies and Kurumata, and that was it. Still is, actually.
I think of that story where you asked Philip Johnson, the great architect, about his mentor, Mies, and he brushed it off. What was it about Mies’ work that struck you so early and stayed with you?
With Mies, every single thing you saw was an edited work. The Farnsworth House [in Plano, Ill.], the Barcelona Pavilion, the Seagram Building, the [Promontory] apartments in Chicago. They were all as near to perfect as I could think, really. And the works just got stronger over time. Spending time at the Farnsworth House, [van der Rohe’s seminal 1951 modernist house in Illinois] being able to enjoy it personally was fantastic. It was also quite surprising. I didn't realize how generous the proportions were.
In what sense?
Everything was wider and taller and more spacious than you saw from the photographs. Even his Barcelona chair is big enough for two people.
I'm curious how your own work has evolved in the past 40 years. Is it more minimalist? Is the approach different with a team?
It's a bit easier. My clients are young now, and before I was a young guy and they were mature. But nothing's really changed. It’s been very consistent. It’s surprising to me. I'm not completely blinkered, but I tend to keep my head down and get on with the work. You can't ignore what happens, but it's not a fashion thing, driven by trends. Things are a bit different than 40 years ago. But not our approach. The tenets are still there.
I read you keep up quite a bit with engineering projects, like bridges and roads. What draws you to these structures?
I'm not sure if you could draw a direct line to it, but architecture with a single purpose, like a bridge, or a motorway, or a dam, there's something spare about the form. They have a single purpose and their engineering makes them visually simple, which is also pleasing. You tend to only be able to do that if you’re doing a bridge. A house is always very complicated; it’s not a single form.
Are the monasteries and churches you made closer to that?
The interior of a church should be simple enough, so it doesn't distract you from the job at hand, to get closer to God, or to at least pray, and have a few moments of silence. The rest of the monasteries, the cloister, and the refectory and all the other rooms are designed as visually simple. They have to function.
At the beginning of your career, was it tougher to get your minimalist ethos across to clients?
It was very difficult to get across to the teachers. But there were early adopters. Doris Saatchi, an American in London, was a great patron. And then Calvin Klein, who was introduced to me by Ian Schrager, the hotelier. That set the whole thing on a different scale. It changed my life, actually, not just my career. It's hard to overestimate the impact.
Did Calvin have a specific vision of how he wanted the shop to look like? Or were you directing it?
He's an architect manqué and was interested in architecture and designing it together. He had very strong ideas. You can identify Calvin a lot in the finished product. He likes black and white and contrast. I said as a joke to make the windows one piece of glass, which is quite hard—36 feet high, the biggest piece you can get. But that was him. And there are things I wouldn't have done, but luckily I saw sense.
What would you not have done? What did you change your mind about?
Minor things. I wouldn't have had so much contrast or detailed the handrails as they are. But I'm quite happy now, especially how successful the store was. I didn't realize how fresh and new it was for people in New York. It wasn’t life or death for me.
What is it about the details of a bare minimalist work that makes it affect people?
There is a feeling walking into spaces like the ones we do, where people expel air, feeling something different. And of course, there people walk in and have no idea at all, or who think it's a lot of nothing, or it's empty, or there's something strange going on. But creating that atmosphere is hard work, and is far from minimal. It’s not a question of painting the walls white or putting a wood floor down. It’s the whole complete thing. Even the placement of the furniture.
Is it because you're trying to maximize space, or light?
Trying to make people feel good is the biggest thing. And space. The feeling you get in space is important. People aren’t necessarily relaxing, but feel stimulated or excited. It's a visceral feeling.
Your architecture work can be collaborative, but is it different with object design? Is it a collaboration with the object company, or a brief, or a lark?
We're all architects here, we're not product designers. The products we occasionally design are approached from an architectural point of view. We rely on the manufacturer to develop the object and produce it. It can take a long time, getting from the idea to the table is a long process. The cooking pans we did [with Demeyere, in 2007] took about nine years. We approach them as if they're buildings a bit.
In what way?
The objects are complex. There are a lot of parts. It’s small architecture, for me. It’s also not two different teams in our office. The best architects make the best objects.
I have to ask because this is a fashion magazine. Are you minimalist with your own clothing? Are you taking the same architectural approach—fewer seams, fewer lines—to dressing?
Yes, but not in a design way. The shirts are white, the trousers are gray, the pullover is grey. Shoes are black. Socks are black. Overcoat, black. But it's not all black. My wife likes very colorful dresses, which I've learned to keep my mouth shut about. It's like the painting on the wall. It’s her dress, it's their house. I wouldn't want everyone dressed like I think. it would be terrible. And for architecture as well. Thank God for variety.
John Pawson: The Minimal Home by John Pawson and Deyan Sudjic is published by Phaidon, £39.95 (Phaidon.com)