Maybe in a world obsessed with sleekness, polish, minimalism, post-modernism, the best architecture is raw and unapologetic. I love it, yet I suppose others don't... Now, why wouldn't they? Perhaps it has got something to do with the truth brought with itself: concrete, glass and steel all in the open, making a point and challenging the observer.
Brutalism is most often associated with exposed, rough concrete surfaces which convey a certain brutal beauty (pun intended) in a material that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. Many argue on the subject "ugliness" of concrete, but in particular I think it to be much the opposite.. It’s confident, it’s functional, and it doesn’t need to rely on superficial decoration. Brutalism is a rejection of ornamentation, and that’s where its power lies! It strips away everything that’s unnecessary, leaving you with the raw structure, the bones of the building. You don’t get deception — only the core, the essence.
There is a huge misunderstanding, in my point of view, that those gray, imposing structures are intimidating, especially when compared to more traditionally “beautiful” buildings with ornate façades or delicate details. Yet, there is the warmth of functionality, of purpose. A brutalist building doesn’t dress itself up for you; it invites you to appreciate it for what it is, for what it does. And when you start to see the intention behind the form, you realize there’s something deeply human about that - it’s almost as if the building is showing you its guts.
It’s also democratic in a way. Brutalist architecture often emerged in the post-war period when there was a need for affordable, functional housing and public buildings that could be built quickly and efficiently. These were structures meant for the people, not for the elite. They weren’t concerned with impressing aristocrats or conceding to the tastes of the wealthy. They were about solving real problems — housing shortages, government infrastructure, urban growth. Brutalism doesn’t care about impressing you with luxury; it cares about serving a purpose. And that, to me, is what makes it so powerful.
There have long been political reasons to undermine brutalism. These go back to the 1970s, and to the rise of free market economics that sought to sweep aside the post-war welfare states across Europe. [...] Criticism of brutalism is often tinged with class hatred, a desire for gentrification and a 'not in my back yard' wish for these easy symbols of poverty or immigration to be swept away. — Grindod, 2018
In a weird way, to me brutalism feels more alive than other architectural styles such as with modern glass skyscrapers, with their flawless façades and sleek lines, which often feel sterile to me. They’re too perfect, too polished. But brutalist buildings? They weather, they age, they develop character. Over time, the concrete might crack, or moss might grow in the seams, and it only adds to the charm. It’s as if the building itself is part of the landscape, subject to the same forces of nature as everything else. Brutalism doesn’t resist the passage of time; it embraces it.
There’s something visceral about brutalism — something that stirs an emotional reaction. You can’t ignore them — whether you love or hate them, they demand your attention. There’s a certain honesty in the way brutalist structures acknowledge their own materiality, their own imperfections: it’s like saying “this is who I am, take it or leave it.”
Because one of the most fascinating aspects of brutalism — that uncompromising, dramatic, wilful architectural style of rough concrete and asymmetrical awkwardness - is that despite repeated attacks from the media, developer, even the Queen's son Charles, loving brutalism has emerged as one of the most unexpected fetishes of the 21st century. — Grindod, 2018
