FLUX is a meditation on temporality in architecture. The project can be seen as the development of an attitude towards
the way we generally view architecture.The approach to this project is fundamentally different from the way one would
approach a traditional architecture brief.
The project starts from a practice of refusal. A refusal to partake in the canons and mechanisms that dominate the
contemporary culture of building and architecture, in which extreme efficiency is emphasised, buildings are treated as
commodities, and stratification of physical and historical context are abstracted to a bare minimum as the tabula rasa is
still today’s standard.

Uncertainties and crises that surround our society compels for a re-evaluation of the way we inhabit the planet and use
resources, and consequently how we shape and design our environments. The past negligence to think about long term
processes and consequences have resulted in the climate crisis we currently find ourselves in. In the practice of building
it continues to result in buildings with short lifespans and constant cycles of demolishing and reconstructing.

This dominant culture discourages attitudes outside of what’s usual. But I believe there is many lessons to be learned
and value to be found from challenging the status quo, and trying different approaches when it comes to architecture
and space.

With FLUX I opted for an attitude that emphasises observation of the pre-existing from different perspectives while
focusing on the passage of time spanning over a hundred years.
The attitude of design is one of relinquishment rather than an imposing one, if one could even speak of design at all.
This attitude of the observing architect is essential in order to validate each and every inhabitant, human and non-
human.

The extent of this project is a comprehensive narrative of a singular place over a long period of time. Rather than a basis
to propel a design, the context of the narrative is a fictitious speculation – a fantasy – of the past and future. It is however
based on research of the past and presence of the context of the potato starch factory.

I believe that thinking about architecture and space over a long period of time rather than restricting to existing
conditions is incredibly valuable, and forces us to question and re-evaluate many things we know about architecture.
How do incentives from different users change the meaning of space? How do past circumstances influence the future?
What happens if the inhabitant of architecture is something other than human? Can we reveal qualities, potentials and
beauty that would otherwise be lost in abstractions? 

I enter the main building. The place is massive. The maze of columns, walls and beams obstruct the view so it’s hard to make out the total size of the building. The structure is organised in a systematic grid with repeating dimensions, seemingly designed for flexibility and production. 

There’s a noticeably dank smell present in the building, yet the constant breeze of fresh autumn wind that blows through the open windows prevent it from becoming unpleasant.

I walk around the the outer rim of the building, where daylight shines in through the many tall windows in the facade. They span two stories in height, consisting of thin fragile frames built from concrete and are divided by thin fragile concrete frames, with bent and broken rods in every other window. Small steel wires for reinforcement sticking out of the broken ends. The small glass panes have all but disappeared. 

After circling the outer corridor of the building I explore the central hall. It looks like the pictures I saw, but more decrepit. 

When paying close attention to the details the historic traces of activities of production that once took place here become visible. Attached to the floors there’s crumbled remainders of brick bases for heavy duty machinery, systematically repeating throughout the hall.

The chaos manifests itself in every nook and cranny of the building. Vines and mold cover the walls, columns and beams. Patches of moss cover the concrete floors. The brickwork is crumbling. Rubble on the floor, left behind litter and debris. I can hear water trickling somewhere in the building, echoing through the halls. On the surface of some of the concrete beams exposed reinforcements and bolts left traces of corrosion. 

I come to the conclusion that the corruption of the factory had already started long before it became abandoned. Like the mighty industrial architecture became subject to a building culture obsessed with addition and optimisation.

There’s doorways in strange places of the outer walls. Shabby layers of construction that cover up even older layers of disused architecture. Patchworks of oddly coloured put together cladding. 

All these traces of decay and corruption have a certain beauty to them. Accidental aesthetics that only can be achieved through the passing of vast amounts of time. Through the expanding and shrinking of molecules, chemical processes, weathering of the elements. 

The order and form of the object is broken down. The building no longer serves its purpose. Its commodity function as a functional factory building has become obsolete. It’s therefore become useless. But instead it gains an almost artistic quality. The fragments of imperfection are elevated to a status of beauty.

What if this weakness, fragility and incompleteness that characterises the ruin isn’t seen a such – a failure of design mastery, failure of upholding the means to keep the factory running – but instead seen as inherent to the flux of time? A short moment of grief, followed up an embracing of new conditions? 

‘Veenhuizen’

It started with a petty crime. I was desperate, drunk. It was an act of necessity, yet the law in The Hague is unforgiving.

I curse their words of hope that linger in the back of my mind to this day.

“Support, discipline, solidarity and community.” Eventually I would be back on my feet and be able to provide for myself and maybe my family is what they promised.

First they took me to Amsterdam. Then, we sailed across the south sea.

The dangerous crossing was irreversible and took several days. Once we arrived on land, our journey continued on a barge towed by horses.

They call this Dutch Siberia, and I understand now. This far removed from society, I can’t imagine anyone would come here voluntarily. Swampy fenland as far as the eye could see with nothing else except the occasional sod house. Various small, strange, ramshackle dwellings that must have been used by lowest of peat workers.

After a day of travel, we arrived at the colony. Its presence was first announced by straight orderly avenues lined with poplar trees. Along them newly built stately houses were neatly organised with several still under construction. Long trenches in the landscape marked the construction for new canals.

The last miles we walked on land. We reached the largest building I had seen since I left the city. The extensive brickwork institution stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the flat peatland.

At the end of a long avenue an unwelcoming arched gate with wardens on both sides emerged.

They were my enclosure for three years. My existence was limited between the four barracks that surrounded a giant courtyard, where we toiled endlessly. There was no privacy: the sleeping quarters were shared with eighty others, and we were under constant surveillance.
For the clothes and shelter they offered we had to work our share together, yet rarely did you succeed, ultimately becoming tied to your debt owed to the society. 

I dreamed up and imagined ways to get out. That was maybe the one benefits of being deprived of freedom. The mind goes places. When I was about to give up, hope was what kept me going.

The gaols in my dreams were impenetrable, their walls several meters thick, slowly suffocating me from all sides. I thought my stay here would be permanent, but God was showing me a way out through my dreams. Through Him I was able to claw my way out.

After years of loyal service, we were slowly getting given more opportunities for good behaviour. 

I saved my allowance and stored it in a hiding place under my bed. I limited myself to the tiny food rations that we were given, and I was getting scrawnier by the day. 

Finally, my opportunity arrived. To the more conforming members of the institute, small rewards would be given in the form of different labor services. We would have periodic work in the fields outside of the regulated colony borders.

One day we were taken out in the fields to spend the day working in the sun while the overseers were drinking and watching us.

It was a festive day of celebration, for reasons I cannot remember. Festive as the mood was, the overseers got drunk and careless. I managed to hide myself in a trench, and when no one paid attention I ran, as fast as I could. By the time they discovered I was gone I was already miles away. 

‘Tinkerer’

The factory was never designed for the rapid progress of mechanisation. 

Crisscrossing through the halls of the factory, seeking the route of least resistance, penetrating the walls and floors of the factory. Wrapping under, over, and around each other. Every route planned with great efficiency, every corner turned with purpose.

It’s an intricate system of stainless steel steam pipes, exhaust ducts, sewage lines, processing gutters, aqueducts, drainages, pneumatic pipes, PVC electricity wiring, fire suppression systems, plumbing, cooling and heating systems.

The dizzying web is hard to navigate, and its intricate systems are deeply familiar to me. I know where is what, what goes where, how to rewire, where the weak spots are, and how to fix things. I spent years rooting out each individual defect and technical shortcoming, and it’s never ending. 

The centri-sieve system is in need of additional water supplies, as our current systems are at full capacity. The pump out front is set up and connected to the canal. Various steel segments, straight and curved are laid out in front of the building. With the help of the crane operator I connect the different segments across the facade, supporting it with brackets attached to the brickwork at regular intervals. 

I take out the glass of the window and replace it with a plywood panel that I perforated with a circular hole in the middle, exactly fitting the diameter of the pipe. I use an elbow piece to thread the pipe through to the inside. Once inside, I place the last critical segment that connects the outside system to the interior one, that I had already placed beforehand, anchored and bolted to the convenient system of steel columns. I’ve left some wiggle room in order to properly fit the pieces together. Using the bolt screwer I fasten the final bolts. There, fixed.