Brutalist architecture is an addictive beast that has a bewitching spell on those who delight in its elephantine aggression. Coined from the french phrase "beton brut" - raw concrete - by the British architectural critic Reyner Banham, Brutalism described the style of simple, blocky concrete constructions which flourished in the 1950s & 60s (its origins begin earlier in the 20th century). It was, of course, a pun on the french word to reflect the overall general disgust in which the style was received in the country. Yet I have come to learn that whilst it often evokes much distain amongst critics and the general public alike, there are many, like me, who have an insatiable appetite for the utilitarian concrete ogres whose mundane functions, like a gaping wound, are left very much exposed. I have been traveling the world to take photographs of buildings for the past 15 years, even before I knew I was doing it. Now I actively seek them out mostly for that purpose, as we
Flickering past the regimented tall blocks of the city, the train ploughs forward at speed, passing the rows of the building traffic on the roads adjacent. Like sterile dolls houses, the office towers are lit up in the horizon, ready for the drudge of the corporate facade that awaits. I feel like I am watching the world from the outside, only not from above. I am very much deep within the dregs of the dark. Hidden amongst the faceless. All these people whizzing by - in cars, on bikes, in buses, on trains. All with a place to go. A purpose. All have their story to tell; their tale, no matter how exciting or indeed, mundane. Everyone on their own trajectory heading towards their goals, their dreams, or just an aimless whim. I am an aimless whim. It is early morning and I am being taken to the airport. The ultimate hub of all things potential. All these journeys about to start, the possibilities budding and spreading across like a spilt liquid of happenings. Only